


Under Your Spell

by darling_pet, distantstarlight



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Boarding School, Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Angst, Best Friends, Cliffhangers, Competition, Cross-cultural, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Emotional Hurt, Extra-points for naming off all related Fandoms and Stories hidden in this fic, Family Drama, Family Secrets, Fluff, For Science!, Friends to Lovers, Heartbreak, It will all work out, Jealousy, John is also a drama queen, M/M, Magic, Muggle John, Music, POV Alternating, Plot Twists, Rated E for later chapters, Sherlock is a drama queen, Social Justice, Spells & Enchantments, Timeline perspective alternating, True Love, Villains, happy ending guaranteed, some familiar faces, star-crossed lovers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-25
Updated: 2017-04-27
Packaged: 2018-06-04 12:22:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 53,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6657550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darling_pet/pseuds/darling_pet, https://archiveofourown.org/users/distantstarlight/pseuds/distantstarlight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When John Watson was still quite young he learns something astonishing. It changes how he sees the entire world. Now he has to learn about things he'd never even dreamed of, but that's alright, he's met someone special who helps him. Sherlock Holmes is a strange young boy, stranger than anyone John has ever known but that's alright too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In The Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> This story takes place some years after HP leaves Hogwarts. Many things have changed in that time. HUGE RESPECT for JK Rowling's universe, and apologies for how we're about to alter details for our purposes. We own neither Sherlock nor Hogwarts but we'd like to.
> 
> Updates will happen as I have time to write. For once I have no problem with production, just no spare time.
> 
> d

 

When Sherlock Holmes was a small boy he often enjoyed going for nature walks with his much older brother. Those days were fleeting though, and inevitably the time came when Mycroft went off to school. “I won’t be able to call. I’ll try to write though.” Sherlock dismissed Mycroft’s promise as lies. _Magical messages were always possible if you really wanted to and Mycroft clearly did not_.

It meant a lot of lonely days spent by himself but what other options were there? There was that entertaining month where he’d sent Mycroft _Howlers_ every single week, purportedly from Mummy, but soon enough the Ministry of Magic put a stop to his underage shenanigans. In a fit of defiance, Sherlock cast one last illegal spell. He wanted a friend, so taking up two plain notebooks, he thought as hard as he could about the things he was unhappy about and wished for someone to make them all better. One notebook disappeared, and the other remained.

John Watson was a very ordinary boy. He lived in a small well-kept house with his parents and his twin sister. They didn’t have a lot of money but they got by. Mum worried a great deal about how to pay for things like school supplies, so every summer John took small jobs to help pay his own way. His favourite job was helping out Mrs Hudson. She lived several blocks away in a strange crooked house and she grew a fantastic assortment of weird plants. It was John’s duty to keep the lawn mowed and hedges trimmed as often as possible, a hazardous task because some of the plants and weeds fought back, in addition to keeping everything else properly watered and fertilised. In payment, Mrs Hudson often sent home huge batches of baked goods, all of which Mrs Watson gratefully accepted.

One day, John found something strange. There was a workbook on his bedroom desk, very similar to the ones he used in school, but made of some kind of strange parchment that didn’t feel like normal paper. There were words written inside. They moved strangely but when he focused on them they clearly spelled out, “If convenient, be my friend. If inconvenient, be my friend anyway.” There was an empty space beneath where obviously he was supposed to answer back. He thought about what had been written, and he knew immediately that whoever had written the words was lonely. This statement affected John deeply because although he was an approachable child, his sister often made it impossible to have friends over. She was rude, invasive as well as abrasive, and after a visit or two, most people stopped coming by to play. Digging out a pen John carefully wrote one word, “Okay.”

He hadn’t heard of self-answering books before, but he was quite young and understood enough to know that he didn’t know everything. To that end, John didn’t think much of his strange new possession, and each day thereafter a new note would appear. Sometimes it made no sense like “Bats are not combustible” and he couldn’t be sure how to respond, but sometimes the comments were poignant: “No one but you has spoken directly to me for the past eight days” and John would immediately take pen to paper and write back something cheerful. He couldn’t bear the thought of his mysterious pen-pal being lonely, it made him sad inside.

Sherlock was at first bewildered with his workbook. He hadn’t actually expected to _reach_ someone with it, but no matter what he wrote, his invisible friend made some kind of reply… unless he was asleep, _obviously_. For at least eight hours every single day, Sherlock could expect no answer. Regardless, whomever it was was clearly very affectionate, and kept saying things like, “I’d hug you if I were there” and ending their comments with three x’s and three o’s. Sherlock used a newly purchased laptop to access what the Muggles called “the Internet” and discovered that it meant “hugs and kisses”. He grew even more confused. He hadn’t been hugged or kissed since he been an infant and he was fairly certain Mummy hadn’t been the one to do so. He’d had wet-nurses at first, and then nannies. At his current age of ten and a half, he had a house-elf, but it was mute, a condition imposed on it as part of its service contract to the Holmes family. Since Sherlock was practically minded, and knew what he immediately wanted his new elf to do, he named it _Carter_. The small creature was then set to haul around whatever Sherlock wanted carried, to fetch him drinks when he needed them, and to generally make sure his human master was not distracted from his studies for mundane reasons like _meals_ and _bedtime_.

Sherlock was a defiant child, thin as a twig of willow, but with a wild mop of inky black curls on top. He’d inherited his mother’s unusual eyes, the one visual clue that his bloodline contained a secret. Perhaps it was the reason he was so contrary, doubting every rule that was imposed upon him, finding ways around them without breaking his word, and generally doing his best to be as unlike his family as he could manage. Oh, he was still rude, cold, manipulative, and filled with plots, Mummy wouldn’t have it any other way. Some differences were small but significant. For instance, no matter _how_ many of his peers behaved toward their house-elves, Sherlock was strangely kind to his. He found a way to work around the clothing problem by purchasing several reams of good sturdy cloths of various colours, along with threads and needles, and sticking the lot into a box clearly labelled “for general house use.” He had then complained about how disreputable his elf looked in a loud querulous voice. Carter had scuttled away, come across the box of new fabric, and had sewn a smart new outfit together in compliance with little Sherlock’s demands. Now Carter looked like the world’s smallest valet. Even Mummy had been amused and agreed to allow Carter to remained dressed since technically the clothing had not been a gift.

Carter was the one to notify Sherlock that his notes had been answered since he carried the notebook everywhere, and the young Master would eagerly read each note. The small strange boy was intrigued with his new friend. It didn’t seem to matter what time of the day or night, what day of the week, it didn’t seem to matter at all when Sherlock sent a message, his friend would always reply. It was comforting knowing that someone out there in the world liked him, wanted to talk to him, was paying attention to him. It helped settle him enough so that he could concentrate on his studies. The human world was fascinating. They were so clever, overcoming their inability to cast spells by using a different kind of sorcery, something called _science._

For the first time ever, Sherlock fell in love.

Maths were beautiful, and chemistry as addictive, in fact, there wasn’t an area of science Sherlock didn’t find appealing. It was logical and solid, not tempestuous or nebulous like magic was. After living his whole life without proper access to supernatural powers, Sherlock decided that he would learn how to do everything manually. He didn’t _need_ magic. Billions of the un-magical got by without magic every single day.  That was fact, and Sherlock was now hooked on facts. He would be fine. To ensure his success, Sherlock interrogated all the human staff that kept Mummy’s house. From them he learned more about fascinating tools like _mobile phones_ , machines called _computers_ that were portable, and once he figured out how to access the online universe, the fledgling wizard known as Sherlock Holmes vowed to learn everything he might ever need to know in order to exist without magic for as long as possible.

With only a small bit of difficulty he bypassed the manor’s magical shield that kept the Internet out, right before he figured out how to access un-magical money which was boring as well as strange. A small fee at Gringotts was all it took. Sherlock would live as much by the power of his mind as he could manage, within reason, of course. He set up an account at a regular bank and stocked it with what he felt was a sensible amount of money. His family was embarrassingly wealthy, not that _money_ mattered. A missing wheelbarrow or two of gold would never be noticed by anyone. To a Holmes only _power_ mattered, Mummy made that very clear during her many lectures. She knew how intelligent Sherlock was and brooked no excuses when it came to success. He had no plans to fail at his course-work at school. Mummy would obliterate him. No, he’d learn his lessons and practice the craft, but _only_ for grades. By the time he was finished his final year he would be properly ready to live in the real world.

Plans made, and course set, Sherlock Holmes was unsurprised to discover a large white owl at the dinner table that night. It was nearly a year earlier than expected, he wasn’t even ten yet, not for months, but the letter was irrefutably there. Mummy’s eyes glittered with satisfaction. Not even Mycroft had gotten into school so young. Sherlock supposed all his magical experiments had more value than he’d originally calculated. Apart from his much prized note-book, the rest of the results had been disappointing at best. Well, since he had to study magic _anyway_ , even if he didn’t need to use it, he might as well be the best at it. It only stood to reason.

“Work hard my son, learn all. You know my expectations.” His mother’s eyes remained brightly lit. Sherlock fancied that the ice that made up the core of her personality was what made them sparkle so. Mummy was as soft and giving as a diamond, her sharp edges and keen insight allowing her to look deep inside those around her. She was perfectly groomed and exquisitely dressed, her long pale hair falling to her shoulders in a thick mass, and instinctively Sherlock mentally checked himself over. He was dressed in a black velvet suit, and a snowy white shirt. It was a look that suited him, making him seem slenderer than he was in reality, elegant, even  charming. He glimpsed a hint of approval in her face and felt pleased.

“Yes, Mummy.” Sherlock always obeyed his mother. It never occurred to him to not. Even _Mycroft_ still listened to Mummy, despite how he was grown up already, working a proper job, and living on his own. Mummy was powerful and fiercely proud. If she wanted Sherlock to excel at school, then he would. There was no question. There was only one point of contention, but since she hadn’t specifically made it a demand, Sherlock had an idea about how to avoid it. It might not even be an issue, he couldn’t tell, but if he had a chance, then Sherlock planned to take it.

At least she was allowing him to go to Hogwarts, which had a stellar reputation for magical instruction, instead of making him go to Durmstrang where most of his cousins attended. Mycroft had been allowed to go to Hogwarts as well, but had already completed his final year and was busy working for the _Ministry of Magic_ , doing boring bureaucratic things that Sherlock had no interest in. Mummy was darkly pleased. Mycroft’s minor position was a foothold in the largest, most powerful, most influential organisation in the northern hemisphere. Sherlock didn’t care for government. He preferred his experiments and puzzles over the tangled mess of international cross-Muggle politics.

When the owl flapped through the window at John’s house, his mother screamed and his father tried to hit it with a mop. Harry was the one who noticed the letter drop to the table, calling out to mum to tell her about it. The owl flapped right back out again after snatching up Harry’s bowl of dessert and carrying it off. John had sat there quietly the entire time, entranced at the owl’s beauty, how easily it had avoided dad’s awkward blows, and he was certain that the owl had looked him straight in the eye and winked.     

“Oh my,” mum was looking at the golden writing on the front of the letter. “John, it’s about you.”

Everyone crowded around her, reading the missive. It was bizarre because the paper reminded John of his secret notebook, parchment instead of normal paper. Oddly, when mum read it out loud, the words from her mouth didn’t quite match the words on the page.

“ _Mr. and Mrs. Watson, please know that your son, John Hamish Watson, has been chosen to be this year’s recipient of a full scholarship at the private boarding school known as…_ ” and here the words began to differ. While mum spoke out a very normal sounding name, John heard and saw _Hogwarts School of Magic_. He blinked but no one else seemed to hear or see the same so he said nothing. The differences grew greater, “Appropriate suits and supplies” became “Robes and cauldrons”, and his mum heard “Soho” when John heard “Diagon Alley”. Mum and dad were beside themselves with happiness. “Look, _accounts_ for John are waiting at each place he needs to get his supplies, we won’t have to pay a thing!”

John was almost leaping out of his skin with excitement. Magic was real! He was going to learn magic! Somehow or other, for what unknowable reason he’d probably never figure out, John had been chosen to go to... _Hogwarts_ ? That was a pretty odd name. John thought for a moment before mentally shrugging. It was magic, and all magic things probably had weird names. He should expect it, after all, it was _MAGIC!_ John had to stop himself from leaping about and shouting out his excitement. _He was eleven. He was too old for that kind of behavior_.

“Why does he have to go alone?” Harry was peering petulantly down at the instructions. “This is pretty weird, don’t you think? What, you’re just going to send John away the first chance you get _just_ because you won’t have to pay for it?” _She made it sound as if their parents were trying to get rid of him!_

Dad looked appalled and mum was clearly upset, but John recognized his twin’s true issue. Harry was jealous. She would have to continue going to school locally, and making do with whatever clothing their parents could afford, which wasn’t the best. Well, now they would only have one child to look after, you’d think she'd be happy knowing she would have all their attention now.

“Harriet Watson, don’t spoil this for your brother.” It was too late. John already felt terrible and Harry knew it. While a glimmer of regret was in her eyes she managed a bit more spite. “At least I’ll have some room to spread out once you’ve gone. I’ll be binning all your things, better pack whatever means the most to you.”

John felt sick. _His graphic novels! His visual dictionaries! All his memorabilia!_ She’d do it, too. John knew she would. Even if mum and dad boxed everything up and stored it away, Harry would find it all and figure out how to make sure all of it ended up in a landfill. She’d never been easy to get on with, and now that he had gotten something she didn’t, even if she didn’t want it, she was going to act out. That’s just how she’d always been. “Harriet Watson, go to your room. Your attitude leaves much room for improvement.” Harriet stormed off and mum looked down at John who was torn between excited happiness and misery. “Congratulations my son. We’re going to miss you so much when you go, but I’m so very proud of you. Obviously how hard you work has caught someone’s attention. Make the most of it my dear. It’s more than we could ever have hoped for.”

Two weeks later a tremendous steamer trunk was delivered to their doorstep. John’s name was on it, and inside was a detailed list of things he was supposed to acquire, and the name of someone who was going to outfit him.  With difficulty they brought it inside and wedged it into John's room, “The school has sent a representative. He’s coming tomorrow to meet us before taking John shopping.”

“He?” wondered mum, “I wonder who they will send?”

The next afternoon, right before lunch-time there was a ring at the door. When John opened it he found himself face-to-face with a rotund and happy looking young man who said, “Doorbell,” in an absurdly pleased tone. “I rang it.” he announced proudly.

“Yes you did. That’s why I answered the door,” replied John, a tiny bit confused.

“I know! Practical _and_ brilliant, if I might say.” The man stuck out his hand so John shook it, “My name is Michelangelo Stamford, but you can call me Mike.” Mike kept shaking John’s hand until the small boy pulled it away. “I’m here to meet your parents and to answer any questions they might have.”

The interview that followed was odd, as odd as the letter had been. Mike smiled pleasantly the entire time, and thoroughly enjoyed mum’s dainty cupcakes. John noticed again that what he was hearing was very different than what his family was hearing. All through the odd conversation John kept hearing Mike say that John had been chosen to become a wizard, and as a _Muggle_ , whatever that was, was automatically entitled to a special scholarship fund, since no unmagical family could possibly pay for magic school without the right credentials. “John’s been noticed by someone who then put his name in for consideration. He was reviewed, and picked. What luck!” What mum and dad heard was that John had been randomly chosen to attend a very well-to-do private school, and would receive the best training available until he graduated several years hence. “Of course he will be able to come home for major holidays, and during the summer break, but apart from that the school has very strict policies about keeping their students out of touch with the distractions of the real world.”

John was amazed as his parents seemed to find this very agreeable. Mum looked nearly as relieved as dad did. His father went on to say, “Our Johnny has a lot of potential. We’d always worried we wouldn’t be able to do right by him. This is a tremendous blessing. It’s almost like magic!”

Mike smiled strangely at them. “Yes. Almost.” He went on to arrange to pick John up in three days’ time. “Bring your trunk, you’ll need it.” John had nodded, but otherwise remained as silent as he had during the interview which had obviously only happened to assuage any worries his parents might have had.

After Mr. Stamford had left Harry returned to the kitchen looking more spiteful and malicious than ever. “There John, made some room for you.”

“Harry!” shouted John as he ran to his room. He found his window open and all his clothing flung to the yard, even his undergarments. Harry was immediately grounded and put to polishing mum’s silverware. Dad helped John gather up all his clothes to launder them. “Why does Harry hate me so much?”

Dad was silent. “I don’t think she actually hates you, son, but she’s not happy right now, and you’re the only one she can lash out at. You know she’s always been a bit…”

“Greedy?”

“Well no…” protested dad insincerely. “She’s just very…”

“Entitled?” inserted John; _being entitled_ was a concept he’d heard about on the telly, and in his mind it described his sister perfectly. She was older by ten entire minutes, and all their lives had been made up of Harry taking whatever she wanted, far more than her fair share, all because of them. Now for the first time ever John was getting something that she wasn’t.

Dad said nothing for a long minute. “She’ll be angry for ages but I want you to put aside how that might make you feel. You’re about to leave us for a very long time, and your mum and I will miss you dreadfully, never doubt it. I know your sister is doing her best to take the good away from this, but don’t you let her.  We Watsons always work hard for what we get, and we don’t let a perfect opportunity pass us by. You study everything you can, learn as much as you are able, and when you are done, the world will be able to offer you so many adventures. You’ll meet people you never would have had a chance to meet, be in situations your mum and I could never have provided. This is a very serious thing, and we want you to make the most of it.” Here dad paused. “It’s not easy making your way through this life with nothing, and this is _something_. Yes, Harriet is going to be miserable to you right until you leave. Once you’re gone though, don’t let her words or attitude stop you from trying absolutely everything you can. I cannot express enough how proud your mum and I are that this is happening for you. You are our only son, we love both our children so much, and if this had happened for Harriet, well, we would have been just as proud.” Dad looked uncomfortable for a moment, “Everything we’d saved for you will be spent on her of course, it’s only fair.”

“That’s alright though dad, it makes me feel better.” It did. John now knew he’d be getting new clothes, new books, new everything, all thanks to the mysterious accounts waiting for him. Harriet would have to make do with what she could find nearby. This was best. Maybe when he came home for the holidays she wouldn’t be so angry. “I’ll miss you, though.”

“I know you will son.” Dad had hugged him hard, a rare hug for John. Dad wasn’t as demonstrative as mum was, so John felt all over again that he was leaving his family so far behind he might never be able to come back, not really.

Sherlock was shouting for Carter. It was time to go get his school supplies, and to no one’s surprise Mummy wasn’t going. Mycroft was to have brought Sherlock to Diagon Alley but had been called to work unexpectedly so now Sherlock was going alone. “Don’t forget to buy new robes, and don’t you dare disappoint me,” Mummy sternly gave her instructions. “You have the family name to represent.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Books _first_ Mummy. Robes are boring.”

“People will see you in them every single day,” reminded Mummy. “Impressions are important.”

He’d rolled his eyes once more but left the mansion without further comments. Carter rolled Sherlock’s trunk behind him, his large eyes darting here and there as he took in views. “Don’t dawdle.” Sherlock had made Mycroft cast a spell on the trunk so it would always be light as a feather. Carter had no trouble moving it, nor would he suffer once all the shopping had been done. The trip to Diagon Alley was supposed to be brief, but the second he got there he nearly fell over a shopper. “Mind your feet!” he snapped.

“Sherlock Holmes, well, fancy running into you today.”

Sherlock recognized the man’s voice immediately. During many of Mycroft’s presentations at school, one person had made the visits bearable. “Mike Stamford.” There was a tiny boy behind Michelangelo. Sherlock’s brilliant mind whirled into gear. “Un-magical, poor, you do outdoor work for pocket-money, and you fancy yourself to be athletic despite your diminutive size.”

The boy’s eyes grew rounded with surprise and Sherlock braced himself mentally for the curses that were to follow. “Amazing!” said the wee child.

“What?” That wasn’t the reaction he’d expected.

“That was amazing. How’d you know? Did you just _magic_ me?” The boy had astonishingly blue eyes, and a smile that seemed to reach ear to ear. He didn’t seem to be the least bit uncomfortable being deduced, and Sherlock was instantly intrigued. “Go on, tell me how you did it.”

Sherlock sneered. “I’m _underage_. Magic is prohibited. I didn’t need to use it anyway. I used facts. I _observed_ , that’s all.”

“Brilliant, absolutely brilliant. I’m John, by the way. John Watson.” The tiny boy was still grinning.

Mike had a soft smile. “John is attending Hogwarts, he’ll be in your year. His family are Muggles; they don’t know anything.”

“Naturally,” replied Sherlock. The Ministry of Magic was the whole reason for their ignorance. If Muggles knew about magic there would be nothing but problems.

John scowled now and Sherlock was amused. “They don’t know anything about _magic_. They know plenty about other stuff.”

Sherlock felt a bit bad about being so condescending. John had given no offense, and even if he was one of the unmagical, he’d still gotten into Hogwarts, which not even all purebloods could manage. “I’ve got the list for supplies. I can help you if you would like.”

John’s scowl disappeared and Sherlock was surprised to realize that John was accepting his barely visible apology. “Great! I have no idea what to choose.”

“Well, you’ll need every single thing on it.” Mike was genial. “Now that Master Holmes is here, maybe you two can do your shopping together.”

Sherlock didn’t want anyone even close to being an adult near him while he picked and chose his way through the selections waiting for him. “Fine. Go refresh yourself. I’ll have Carter find you when we’re done.”

John noticed the house-elf even though Carter had been standing right beside Sherlock the entire time. “Why, hello!”

“He can’t speak. My family took his voice away.”

John looked horrified. “What? Why would they do something so horrid?”

 _Horrid?_ Sherlock was confused. “He’s a _house-elf_. He lives to be bound to service to families of the Blood. Discretion is not an option, his voice had to go.”

Little John was scowling all over again, and this time Sherlock felt a twinge of unease. “That’s so wrong. That’s the wrongest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“ _Wrongest_ isn’t a word.” Sherlock sounded prim as well as evasive. John pinned him with an unforgiving glare. “ _I_ didn’t do it, Carter lost his voice at least two generations ago. Look, I managed to dress him at least. Most house-elves don’t get clothing because that frees them, and no one likes it.”

John’s glower grew even angrier. “What? You mean like slaves? What do you mean no clothing? They walk about naked? What type of people  _are_ you?”

Now Sherlock was growing angry. “ _Magical_ people.” He stared down at John as fearsomely as he could manage, “Listen… _Mudblood_ …” Sherlock hated himself for degenerating into name calling but John didn’t even flinch. “Don’t judge things you have no knowledge of. Carter has a good life, better than most.”

Now John looked guilty and filled with regret. “Sorry.” He apologized immediately. “You’re right, of course. I don’t know this world; I’ve never even seen anyone do magic. I have no idea what to expect.”

Now Sherlock was the one to feel guilty. This was probably John’s very first hour in the magical realm. Sherlock had spent years gleaning knowledge of the greater world, and none of those who had helped him had ever once given him the sharp side of their tongue the way he’d just done to John. “I apologize, too. Tell you what, let’s shop together like Michelangelo suggested. I’ll make sure you get everything you need, and whatever extra you might not have thought of.”

When John smiled, it felt to Sherlock as if the sun had suddenly broken out after a long and gloomy day. He felt warm inside when the small boy reached out eagerly and took his hand. “Good. Yes. Yes, let’s do that.”

Sherlock was strangely unwilling to let John’s hand go even though it was apparent that the boy had only wanted to briefly express his gratitude. Instead Sherlock wrapped his long fingers around John’s rough stubby ones and held on. “Let’s go then.”


	2. School Supplies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has met Sherlock Holmes. Mike Stamford has suggested that they get their shopping done together, and the boys find that agreeable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You will find elements of the original stories but just tastes. After all the upheaval I wondered how the magical world would adapt.

To make up for snapping at John, Sherlock took his new acquaintance directly to the most important shop, _Wandsworth’s_.The owner had been trained by the same people who had taught the much-missed Ollivander, and so far the wands they produced had been exemplary. “Oh, my g…” John bit his lip as he walked inside the dark and narrow shop. “This is really happening.” He looked so excited.

Sherlock was momentarily confused but quickly grasped that John at least _recognised_ what a magic wand was. That was something at least. “Would you like to go first?” he offered generously.

“Really?” John looked uncomfortable. “I don’t know what to do.”

Sherlock huffed before striding up to the counter and rapping the surface firmly. Almost instantly a tall and almost impossibly thin man with greying brown hair came to the counter. “Mr Wandsworth, I presume? My name is Sherlock Holmes. This is John Watson. We are here for our wands.”

“Master Holmes, Master Watson! So good of you to favour my shop! We have a brand new shipment in today. As you might know, we’ve _branched_ out,” Mr Wandsworth stopped to laugh at his own joke. “We’ve got wands in from all around the world. Let’s see where you fit, shall we?”

John was amazed. The entire place smelled like wood chips and a bit of damp hair. The walls were covered with narrow shelves filled with even narrower boxes that made him think of pencils. Mr Wandsworth let his hand hover over the labels while he stared intently at John. One of the boxes quivered and the proprietor took it down to place on the counter. He went back the shelves and walked his entire store. When he was done there were eight boxes laid out in front of John. “No underage magic. It’s a strict rule the Ministry enforces these days. I can’t allow you to try the wand out but I’ve managed to figure out a workaround.”

The tall man took John’s hand in his and slowly passed them both over the row of boxes. “They’ll feel warmer or colder to you. Sort them out, hottest on the left, coldest on the right.” It took several minutes but soon enough John used the weird sensation from his palm to help him organise the boxes. The ones at the far right were almost icy compared to the comfortable heat from the boxes to the left. Mr Wandsworth picked it up and opened it, reading the label out loud. “ _Quercus ilex_ , and the centre is made from a hair of the legendary Chiron himself! Astonishing!”

John looked at the wand which seemed very plain to him. It was just a long narrow rod, almost like a very long chopstick but deep brown, almost black. The more he looked at it though the more he realised that the colour wasn’t monochromatic, there were deep shades of blues and reds hidden within. It was actually very lovely. “It’s mine now?”

Mr Wandsworth was making notes in an enormous book, scratching away with an old-fashioned quill. “Oh yes, we’ve been waiting all summer for you to come get your wand. No further payment required.”

Sherlock stepped up and imperiously pointed to a dusty box high above the rest. “That one, if you please.”

Mr Wandsworth gave him a careful look. “Are you certain, lad?” Sherlock nodded firmly and the proprietor’s face grew thoughtful. “Very well.”

He needed a tall rolling ladder to reach the box, and handled it with reverence. “We don’t get many of these, almost none in fact. This will be the first to be placed on this side of the world.” He opened the box. Inside was a long crooked wand. The wood was pale, nearly white, but the snowy fabric it rested upon was stained red, almost as if the wand had been bleeding. Both boys leant in to examine it. “ _Arbutus menziesii_ , cured in Cerridwen’s _Cauldron of Knowledge_ , the only wand we carry that has no heart.”

Sherlock was silent for a long moment, and almost didn’t notice John taking his hand once again. “No heart?” he asked softly. His mouth turned down unhappily. “I have no heart?”

“Your _wand_ has no heart, not exactly anyway,” answered Wandsworth before smiling at the boy kindly. “Of course you have a heart Master Holmes, and I’m sure it is a great one.”

The door to the shop banged open and a dark-haired girl walked in followed by a mousy boy. Both their expressions grew malicious the second they spied Sherlock. “Hey, it’s the _freak_. Who’s that with you? Your boyfriend? Did you get someone to put a spell on him so he wouldn’t run away screaming?” She seemed very sure of herself and for the first time all day Sherlock felt misery. He didn’t have friends, and the few pureblood children he did know had good reason to dislike him entirely.

John stood as tall as his small form would let him. “What if we _are_ boyfriends? What is it to you? Don’t call people names. I know people who were born in barns that have better manners than you.” Sherlock was astounded to find that John was holding his hand even tighter than before and was almost trembling with barely suppressed rage. “Let’s go, Sherlock. We’re done here anyway.” Giving Mr Wandsworth a silent farewell John picked up their boxes and then led Sherlock right out of the store, not releasing his grip for a second.

“You can let go if you want.” _Salamistra Donovan_ had many good reasons to dislike Sherlock, not that he would ever feel guilt about that. He did feel a twinge of unhappiness that John had been witness to how other children would treat him. John was the only person Sherlock had ever met that seemed to find him palatable company.

“I know,” said John who simply laced their fingers together even more securely. “Where to next?”

Sherlock felt an unfamiliar smile spread across his face. He felt light inside, strong even, and it was all due to the small, plain, surprisingly delightful boy at his side. “Books.”

John was in absolute heaven when Sherlock took him into _Sheaves of Leaves_ , an establishment that operated much like a regular bookstore, except they didn’t just sell conventional-a-cover-on-each-side books. They sold scrolls, papyrus rolls, wax tablets, stone tablets complete with handy hammer and chisels. Sherlock let his friend marvel over them while he went off to arrange for their allotment of First Year student texts. “They have sets waiting behind the counter, we just have to give our names. Carter will take them, just browse for now.”

John saw sections he recognised, like _Mystery_ , and _Romance_ , but he also saw _Books To Be Written_ , which were for aspiring authors, and _Retro-biographies_ , which Sherlock explained were like regular biographies but about your past lives. Each book was unique and could only be read by the purchaser. John was tempted to get one but Sherlock pulled him away to examine quills. “This stuff is...I don’t know how to describe it.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “You have books in your world, do you not? Pens? Pencils? This is no different.”

John looked around, spying books that corrected their own grammar and spelling, books that became pocket-sized when you weren’t reading them but as big as you liked when you were. “No, it really isn’t.”

Sherlock was enchanted when John told him about his novels and dictionaries, making the small boy promise to bring them all to school. In return for the expected novelties, Sherlock bought John a miniature folding desk, which was a regular sized desk that you could tuck away when you didn’t need it. John was over the moon with it, and Sherlock rolled his eyes yet again.

It took the rest of the afternoon to collect everything they needed for their first year. Sherlock began to feel pleasure in John’s reactions to things. Even the plainest of magicks was enough to astound the boy. When they arrived at the _Enigmatic Menagerie_ both of them paused. “This is like the wands. We don’t get to choose, our _familiar_ will choose us.”

“Are familiars like pets?” wondered John out loud.

“No, not exactly, but for the first year or so they’ll be little more than that until we learn some more advanced magic. Come along John.” Sherlock enjoyed the feel of John’s hand in his, even if it was a bit sweaty and hot. It was also comforting and grounding. John didn’t even seem to notice that they were doing so, letting Sherlock go whenever he needed to use both hands, but also almost unconsciously taking it up again the moment it was free.

The _Enigmatic Menagerie_ was run by a brother and sister team by the name of Heinroth. Both of them looked rough, wore sturdy plain clothes, and smelled a bit unfortunate thanks to the constant cleaning up after animals they clearly did. They checked a long roster of names carefully before allowing the boys to walk the aisles. John was ecstatic when a large graceful bird flew right on over and perched on his shoulder. “I pick you. I pick you,” it squawked.

“A parrot! Wow, who would ever have believed it? I thought witches and wizards only had things like toads or ravens or such.” John was entranced. His parrot was a little over 30 centimetres long, its plumage a softly mottled grey. Its hooked beak had a tinge of brilliant pink, as did some of the feathers on its tail. He thought it was the most beautiful and unusual bird he’d ever seen.

Sherlock felt a stab of envy. He’d read about human pirates, and for a while had fancied taking up the life before reading that the good old days of wooden boat piracy were long over. “It’s a very handsome bird. They can be taught to speak a great many words.”

“Fantastic, absolutely fantastic.” John was petting his new bird which seemed to preen with every word of praise that tumbled from the boy’s lips. “What a great fine familiar you are, so handsome, so strong.”

Sherlock walked off and made his way up and down the rows of animals. He recognised some, but many were so odd he couldn’t put a name to them. When he got back to the counter, nothing had come for him but a red light by the register was flashing. Miss Heinroth was smiling. “Well, looks like someone wants some attention.” She got out a large glass jar with a locking lid. “This should make for an interesting year. We’ll send you the necessary equipment later today.”

Sherlock was confused, a feeling he rarely experienced. What kind of familiar had chosen him? Miss Heinroth strode away to lean over a water-filled tank. “Come on you old rotter, clever little devil, you.”

“Sherlock! Are you seeing this? Wow, I never thought I’d see one in person.” John was almost dancing around, his parrot fluttering on his shoulder to keep balance.

Sherlock’s mouth dropped open. “That?” he gasped. “ _That’s_ my familiar?” It was an octopus. He’d never heard of anyone anywhere having a cephalopod as a familiar.

“This is a rare beast indeed. Very close kin to the sort that live in the waters, but this fellow can also live on dry land. He’ll be a right handful too, his sort always is, the few we’ve seen, at least. This is the first one we’ve carried in this particular shop. Congratulations, you’ve just been picked by _immortalis octopi_ , or obviously, the Immortal Octopus. It isn’t actually immortal but this species lives several decades. Most octopods live for only a handful of years. He’ll be yours for the rest of your life. You’ll enjoy it. They’re dead clever, good at camouflage, mimicry, and useful in a wide variety of situations.” Then Miss Heinroth said something that made Sherlock fall in love for the second time in his life. “Careful, he’s venomous. He’s toxic enough to fell an elephant. In several ways, he’s similar to his close cousin, the _Wunderpus photogenicus._ ” John sniggered at the name and Sherlock flushed lightly.

Despite that the taller boy approached his new familiar with a great deal of tenderness, “Hello, handsome,” Sherlock crooned and smiled as the beast shifted into a rainbow of colours that pulsed across its flesh. Tentacles flailed and Sherlock held steady as it used them to pull itself up his arm to perch on his shoulder just like John’s bird was perched on his. One long wiggly limb reached out and caressed his face all over, touching his ears and playing with his curls for a moment. When it was done it crawled back down his arm, stuffed itself into the jar, and pulled the lid closed. With another small smile, Miss Heinroth latched it tight before she handed it to Sherlock. “This is his favourite jar, it won’t break. I think he just enjoys the scenery and being carted about.”

John noticed that Sherlock didn’t hand his familiar over to Carter. The house-elf was pulling his master’s trunk with John’s trunk on top of it, but he didn’t seem unhappy. If anything, Carter was examining everything curiously, looking all around with as much wide-eyed wonder as John. The boys left the store after John arranged for a large cage to be sent onward to Hogwarts. He seemed reluctant to choose the more expensive options, settling for a straight-forward and practical cage for his yet unnamed familiar. It was currently dozing on his shoulder, it’s head a bit sideways and its eyes shut tight. Finally, the end of the day could be put off no longer. Taking John’s hand in his Sherlock sighed, “We need to order clothing now.”

Sherlock led John to _Taicho’s_. “This clothier has been in business for centuries. It has been run by the same family the entire time.”

The shop was nearly bare inside and a woman only a few inches taller than John bowed in greeting. She was wearing a smart black suit, dainty black slippers, and her ebony hair was caught up in the most fantastically rigid bun John had ever witnessed. There were two gleaming silver pins keeping the bun in place, and both of them looked long enough to be used as weapons. “Wow.”

“Don’t gawp, John,” admonished Sherlock in a whisper. “It’s rude.”

“Master Holmes, welcome back. We have of course heard that you would be attending with your _partner_.” The woman’s face was friendly but blank.

“Oh,” exclaimed John. “He’s not my partner he’s…”

“His boyfriend,” cut in Sherlock smoothly. “I’m to help him choose. John is one of the unmagical. He will need the full list, put it all on my accounts.”

“Boyfriend?” hissed John quietly, trying to whisper. “We hardly know one another. I have my own accounts, don’t you know? I can get my own clothing.”

“You can’t possibly have an account _here_. This store only has accounts with pureblood families, that’s why I’m adding your things to mine. It’s no trouble, no one in my family will even notice, and clearly, you haven’t realised that we have spent the _entire_ day holding hands, _and_ shopping with one another.” Sherlock’s retort was quickly given. “It’s apparent that we get on. Feel proud, I don’t get on with anyone. Now be quiet John, being my boyfriend for a day is hardly the worst thing in the world.” He heard John mumble the words _entitled git_ under his breath, but at the same time the boy once again took Sherlock’s hand. “Perhaps Donovan was right.”

“Just help me pick some proper clothes, _boyfriend_.” Sherlock felt his cheeks heat up as John teased him. No one made him blush! Not ever! “Nothing too smarmy, but still smart looking.” John’s fingers squeezed Sherlock’s hard for a second. “Thank you, Sherlock. I really am grateful for how good you’ve been to me. I haven’t the first clue how to dress properly for what we’re going to do at school.”

“Don’t tell me, tell the lady.” Now John was the one blushing as the woman looked him up and down with care. When she was done she stood up straight and raised both arms over her head. John gasped loudly as the room seemed to melt away, and in an instant, they were surrounded by fabrics of every description. A wand appeared in her hand and with another small bow, she waved it at John. He was thrilled and a bit nervous. For some reason, it felt like things were really happening, even though they’d been happening all day. Magic was real, and he was part of its world now.

Bolts of material unfurled themselves, draping over John’s shoulder or just hanging around beside him. He said nothing, nor was he asked questions. Sherlock stood beside her and murmured suggestions and instructions. John caught the words “bespoke” as well as “highest quality”. “Oi, I said nothing too over the top!” John wasn’t fussy, no one should go through a lot of extra bother for him! Sherlock ignored him, and so did the lady.

After nearly an hour of being made to sit, stand, kneel, stretch, and even climb a short ladder, the woman finally introduced herself. “You may call me Lady Gozen.” She turned to bow to Sherlock. “Your mother may rest assured that only our finest spells shall be used to craft your wardrobe for this year Master Holmes. Her patronage is, of course, our greatest honour.”

Sherlock bowed shallowly to her. “Lady Gozen, my friend and I will return later this afternoon to pick up our order.” His family shopped almost exclusively here, and Lady Gozen’s records for their sizes magically remained updated. He could rely on her discretion regarding John, after all, you didn’t remain in the employ of so many high ranking witches and wizards without learning the fine art of silence.

John’s mouth hung open before he silently repeated the words _this afternoon_ , but Sherlock simply took him by the hand to lead him out of the shop. “What did you do, Sherlock?”

“I have an unlimited account at _Taicho’s_. I’ve ordered you a complete set of suits to wear beneath your robes during formal events, and casual clothing for all the rest of the time. Hogwarts in winter is damp and cold, you’ll need everything I selected. She’s even doing your boots and shoes.” The wonderful thing about _Taicho’s_ was the way they wove magic into their clothes. No matter how much John or Sherlock grew this year, their clothing would fit perfectly. You had to replace your item once a year when the spell wore off, but that was still better than having to deal with unplanned for growth spurts. Sherlock didn’t mention it but he saw that John’s footwear was patched and the hems of his nearly too-short trousers were frayed, though well kept. It was obvious that the child had very little. Sherlock shrugged off the expense of what he’d just done as _inconsequential compared to the facts._ If John was to remain his friend then Sherlock couldn’t be seen walking about with someone with darns in their stockings or patches on their robe. Mummy would certainly find out and forbid their friendship. This was the easiest way to prevent her from noticing John in an unflattering manner.

John fell silent. Sherlock wasn’t wrong. He had already admitted that he knew nothing about his destination, he’d been too excited about learning magic to even consider what kind of life he would be living during that time. He was a proud boy though and it didn’t sit well with him to have someone buy clothing for him, especially someone he didn’t know, not really. Still, Sherlock was clearly _really_ rich. His clothes had that smart careless look that only a lot of money brought. When the sandy-haired boy looked at his new friend’s feet he saw that the shoes he wore shone like mirrors despite clearly being leather, or something that at least looked like leather. For all John knew it was dragon-skin or something bizarre like that. He had no clue what things he would learn about, he barely had a grasp on the concept that magic even existed. Suddenly he was full of questions. “What sort of place is it?” Sherlock seemed to know everything and John found that he trusted the strange boy he was with, and liked him a great deal. Sherlock was very attractive in his own strange way, but looks were one of the last things that mattered to John. He valued honesty and intelligence. Sherlock was rude and blunt, but he didn’t seem to lie at all, it seemed beneath him, or as if he couldn’t be bothered to soften the truth. John loved that, and unconsciously rubbed his thumb over the back of Sherlock’s smooth hand.

Sherlock considered the question. He’d been to Hogwarts several times thanks to Mycroft, but it never appeared exactly the same way twice. There was always a small change, sometimes the tilework was a different configuration on the roof, or the overall shape had rougher or smoother aspects. No one else had noticed except the long-time staff, not even the students, not really. Sherlock supposed that the changes happened so gradually that even living there wasn’t a guarantee that you’d see the place you lived in morph from one state to another with the patience of stone. Finally he just said, “It’s a great huge magic castle. I can’t say how deep into the ground it goes. There are towers all over and the students live in them. We’ll have to share large rooms with small groups of other students, but no more than five people per chamber. There are a few rooms for single occupancy in each tower, but not many.”

“I can’t even imagine,” John seemed to need a minute to take it all in. “Don’t tell me anything more. I want to see it for myself, not through someone else’s eyes.” Sherlock approved of John’s decision. He wasn’t good at describing things anyway, and it would take forever for him to list all the details he’d noticed. It would be faster if John just observed on his own when the time came.

John didn’t seem to mind holding hands with Sherlock, who also found it very agreeable. There was something about John that was warm, friendly, and almost familiar. He seemed so average on the outside, but the more time Sherlock spent with him, the more he liked the boy. His pleasant thoughts were rudely interrupted. “ _Sherlock Holmes_ , I had no idea you were into Muggle boys, was that the reason you turned me down?”

John was being stared at by a boy older than they by at least a year, a tall heavy-set lad with dark brown hair, and a rakish smile. “ _Victor Trevor._ I turned you down because the idea of going on a date with someone who’s only interest is how attractive he looks compared to everyone around him is stomach-turning. John’s status is irrelevant.”

John looked up into Victor’s face which was nearly a foot above his. He stayed calm. You didn’t grow up being Harriet Watson’s younger brother without learning to watch for cheap moves. He wasn’t disappointed. Victor’s hand shot out, and if John hadn’t been expecting something, he would have been knocked backward onto his behind. Instead he stepped closer to Sherlock and tugged on the big boy’s sleeve, unbalancing him just enough to cause him to be the one to fall right onto his face. A sharp yelp announced the appearance of a good sized abrasion from the cobblestones. “Oh dear, are you alright?” John asked, falsely considerate. “That looks like a bit of a nasty scrape.”

With grim satisfaction John noted that the wound was minor but likely painful, head-wounds didn’t need much encouragement. John knew a bully when he saw one, and the boy on the ground glaring up at him was a bully right to the bone. It didn’t worry him in the slightest. He’d spent his entire life learning how to deal with someone like Victor Trevor. Despite his admittedly small stature, John wasn’t an easy target. “I’m going to hurt you for that.” Victor sounded furious.

“Oh?” said John mildly, “Before you do I’d get that looked at, the street is pretty filthy. You don’t want an infection.” The comment seemed to confuse the posh teen, his perfectly shaped brows furrowing into a frown.

Sherlock looked down at Victor coldly. “Infections are caused by _germs_. Germs are unmagical creatures that live everywhere, you can’t see them without assistance. Once the integrity of your skin, which is a _protective organ_ and not just a pretty wrapper, once the _integrity_ has been compromised germs can flood in, causing your flesh to rot and putrefy. If you’re lucky you’ll get away with just a hideous scar on your temple.”

Sherlock was stunned when John let go of his hand to kneel beside Victor, proffering a snow white handkerchief to press against the seeping wound. “Get this checked out. I’m sorry I made you fall.” For the third time in his life, Sherlock Holmes fell in love. John was so brave, so unexpected. Sherlock knew he was very young, even as such things were judged for his kind, but Victor was so much bigger, so casually threatening, but John hadn’t flinched and had even drawn first blood without any effort. Now he was offering assistance to someone who only wanted to harm him, and he still wasn’t flinching! _Incredible._

John did feel a bit badly about hurting the boy who hadn’t actually done anything to him, but still, John trusted his instincts, and right now the desire to protect Sherlock and to get them away from a possible threat was guiding him. “Come on Sherlock, we need to get going.”

Sherlock knew he was supposed to find Mike Stamford now, but instead he sent Carter to bring all their new possessions to the man. Reluctantly, both boys also allowed Carter to take their new familiars with him. “I want to experience a tiny bit of London. Come with me John, this might be my only chance for ages.”

John felt like he should protest for a minute but found the words fading away. He had always wanted to see the city as well, but mum and dad never had the time for a bit of a wander, Harry had never been interested, and well, _Sherlock_ was very interesting. There was something about the boy that John liked very much. It had been extremely pleasant to hold his hand all day long, and it felt like a real connection had developed between them. “Okay.” he agreed.

“I have a debit card. I’ve never used it. Let’s go get lunch somewhere mundane. You must know what’s good to eat.” John was pretty sure Sherlock didn’t mean to sound condescending and rude, but his face must have given him away because the dark-haired boy instantly said, “I’ve only ever eaten at magical establishments. Mummy would never allow me to try _normal_ food. Can you? Help me try some I mean?”

Sherlock sounded so plaintive and hopeful that John’s ire melted away. “Come on then. You’d better have real money though; I don’t have a penny.” Sherlock led John away, enjoying the gasp of surprise when the brick wall in front of them peeled itself away to reveal what seemed to be a bustling street.

“No one can see us, not yet. We’ll have a few seconds before the magic seals itself away.” Once it did, all of Sherlock’s confidence disappeared. He clung to John’s hand as cars whizzed by, as the smell of everything tried to force itself up his nose, and how the chaotic cacophony of everything was very nearly overwhelming. “John.”

“It’s alright Sherlock. I’m right here, I won’t let go.” John saw that Sherlock had become frightened. He realized that everything around him was even stranger to him than Diagon Alley had been to John. Without a thought, John wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s narrow chest, and hugged him tight. The tall boy was trembling a bit and when they parted, John saw that Sherlock’s eyes had gone huge. “I’ll hold your hand every moment, I promise.”

His sincere words loosened something, giving Sherlock something understandable to react to. “I’ll need both of my hands on occasion, especially if we’re eating.” he was sorry he sounded so snappish but he couldn’t seem to help himself.

John just grinned, understanding that Sherlock wasn’t actually angry, he was just in a very unfamiliar environment and feeling skittish. “Come on then.”


	3. A Taste

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is something about being with one another that makes each boy feel special. Sherlock has made a small request, and John sees no reason not to go along.

No one seemed to notice two young boys walking hand-in-hand down the bustling streets of London. Sherlock’s eyes remained huge as he looked up at the buildings, examining every single detail with obvious fascination. Everything from bricks to machinery seemed to intrigue him, and John was positive Sherlock didn’t notice himself setting his long thin arm about John’s more robust shoulders. It was easier to walk when John put his own arm around Sherlock’s narrow waist. It felt comfortable in a way it probably shouldn’t for being a complete stranger. John then hooked his thumb into one of Sherlock’s belt-loops and felt very grown-up. “John, is _that_ somewhere to eat?”

Sherlock was staring at a vibrantly coloured sign that hung above the glassed-in front of a small commercial space. John recognised the bold lettering immediately and grinned. “It is indeed.”

“Do we need to make a reservation? I have a mobile,” offered Sherlock. From one of his pockets, he extracted a device so expensive that John had only seen pictures of the model. He couldn’t even afford the _magazine_ theyhad been featured in. Sherlock offered it to him without batting an eye.

John did all the blinking. “Uh, no. We just walk in and place an order. We should find a cash machine and get some money though, just in case your card doesn’t work properly. We don’t want to order first and find we can’t pay for it. That sort of thing gets you in trouble.” It would also be horrifically embarrassing; a sensation John could most definitely live without.

Sherlock shrugged, tightened his grip on John’s shoulder and peered around. John spotted it first and watched as Sherlock importantly declared himself able to do the transaction on his own. Hesitantly he poked the buttons, keying in his PIN with manifest delight, and nearly crowing with success when a large sheaf of money was produced. Sherlock took the entire handful and brandished it gleefully. “John, take it. _You_ pay for dinner. Your money makes no sense to me and I don’t want to seem the fool. This is enough, isn’t it?”

Sherlock handed John two hundred pounds and his receipt. “We didn’t need more than a tenth of this, Sherlock!” John was aghast. Even if they ordered extravagantly, this place was so inexpensive that they’d never be able to consume _two hundred pounds_ worth of their offerings. Had Sherlock extracted every penny he had? Automatically John checked the remainder listed on the slip in his hand and nearly fainted. “You’ve got…your account is…is this…who has…why do… _Sherlock!?_ ”

“John, you’re not making sense. What about my account? Not enough? It would take a day or so but I can get more easily enough. This should be enough to last until spring though, shouldn’t it?” Sherlock took the slip back and looked at the total dubiously.

“Sherlock!” John was hissing and trying to be quiet. “You have almost _three million pounds_ in that account! That should be enough to last you the better part of your _life_.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “ _Really_ John, I had no idea I was dating such a drama queen. This is a paltry amount, _spare change_. I could never live on this for _years_!” He hadn’t even taken gold from the main pile. This was just some of the bits that were scattered about the floor. The entire lower level of their massive home was filled nearly to the ceiling with gold coins and assorted gold items. No one had bothered even trying to count it for longer than anyone could recall, and that was just the gold they kept at home. Each member of the family had accounts at the goblin bank as well, but Sherlock didn’t bother with his official one. Mummy kept an eye on his expenses from that account, and would until he reached his majority. It had obviously never occurred to her to do what Sherlock had done, and convert their gold into English pounds. Sherlock realised some time ago that there were many things about the Muggle world that were completely overlooked by his fellow wizards, and part of his personal vow was to never suffer from that brand of hubris.

John was reeling and stared up at Sherlock. “By my standards, Sherlock…you are incredibly _well-off_.” It was the understatement of his existence. Now John felt uncomfortable. He was quite poor, and that fact hadn’t ever troubled him until just then. Now he was conscious of his old tatty clothes, and his simple ways. Why was Sherlock even _with_ him? They’d barely known each other for an afternoon! No wonder the tall boy had purchased John’s clothing without care. He really wouldn’t notice a minor expense like a thousand or so pounds for new things to wear.

“Is that bad? I thought it would make things easier. It’s just fun money.” Sherlock considered his new perspective before solemnly handing John his debit card. “You take care of it. I trust you. You know this world, and I don’t. In return you can get whatever you need, whenever you need it. I don’t require anything, not really. If the school doesn’t provide it my mother will make special arrangements for me to get anything at all that I ask for. She’s quite serious about maintaining very high standards. Money nor effort are no object, not to her.”

Mummy was actually terrifying. If she learned that Sherlock had the second-rate of something, she would not rest until he had the absolute _best_ of whatever it was. She was determined that her boys be better than anyone else. She had an ever rising standard of expectations for her sons, and _nothing_ would bar her. John looked reluctant, and seemed to be on the verge of returning Sherlock’s offerings. “I really shouldn’t.”

“You really should,” Sherlock’s mind was made up. He thought fast, and came up with a possible way that John might find palatable, “You can be my _assistant_. You can take your expenses out of your wages, if that makes you feel better.” It was a tentative offer. Sherlock wasn’t accustomed to dealing with someone who wasn’t a relative or a servant. It felt strange to be awkward in this fashion.

“Assistant?” John was wary now. “What kind of assistant?” He was supposed to go to school to study, not to work, but on the other hand, John was acutely aware of what it was like to live without ready cash when you needed it. Perhaps he could earn enough to get his family useful presents for Christmas, and something pretty for Harry. John wanted to mend fences with his sister, but that was a problem for a future date. Right now though, he had to prepare himself for something so different that no one he knew could possibly understand.

“I’m practicing _science_ ,” Sherlock sounded almost reverent. “You can help me locate and purchase all the equipment I might need. You know about computers and mobiles, don’t you?” Sherlock loved technology. He had everything he could manage to smuggle back into his rooms, he never tried to use them in the more public spaces of the manor. He’d just gotten most of it operating, and his mobile had just arrived. Today was his first chance to use it. Mummy looked down on Muggles and anything to do with them.

John nodded. “Of course.” He was awful with them, to be honest. He could manage very basic operations on his parent’s mobile, and struggled with the ancient computers they’d used at school.

“Well I don’t. You can teach me the rudiments and then you can help me. It will be brilliant! Think of all the experiments we can try.” It would be the blind leading the blind. John didn’t know what he would be able to teach his new friend but he’d give it his best effort. The agreement was made.

Sherlock was very excited now. He’d always wanted a microscope. _Science_ didn't rely on phases of the moon, or planetary conjunctions. It worked all the time. John could help figure out how to get him one. He added another sweetener to the proffered arrangement. “I’m going to insist on a private room. My family has that prerogative. I’ll have space for a laboratory. Help me stock it, please John?” Here Sherlock hesitated and suddenly his cheeks pinked heavily as he considered his _other_ desires. “I’d still wish to be your friend John, even if _on the outside of things_ it looked like you work for me. That’s just a cover story as far as I’m concerned. You can say no to anything I ask for, if you think I’m being ridiculous, or dangerous, or…or…just whenever you decide, John. Somehow I know I’m making the proper choice.” Sherlock was reviewing everything that had transpired between the two of them during the course of their brief acquaintanceship, and worried a bit that John might find him too challenging to continue associating with.

John was staggered. No one had ever given him a gift of responsibility like that before. He didn’t even know Sherlock, not really, but today had felt like the first real day of John’s life. Every minute in Sherlock’s company had been more intense than any experience John had ever had. It was like viewing full color for the first time after only seeing in black and white. He knew it should feel odd, he shouldn’t be agreeing to everything without thinking it through clearly. Normally he was a very practical and sensible lad, but he was also protective and sheltering. Sherlock was so young, and just like John, he was very alone. Making his mind up abruptly John nodded and said, “Alright, then.”

Sherlock was beaming down at him and gave him a one-arm hug. John grew a bit concerned when Sherlock stiffened and pulled away, his eyes firmly on the paving in front of his feet. “I called you an _awful_ name earlier.” His cheeks were scarlet with mortification. “I’ve never done such a thing before. I beg your forgiveness, John. You are not... _that_.”

John wasn’t sure what Sherlock was talking about, and it took a moment for him to even remember. “What was that again? Mud…”

Sherlock clapped his hand over John’s mouth to silence him. “Don’t _say_ it, John. People will think you are _coarse_.” He took it away, still looking ashamed of himself. “There is no valid reason to refer to _anyone_ in such a fashion. I was in a bad mood and I took it out on you in the lowest way possible. I would understand if you simply left me here and took yourself home.” Sherlock looked pitiful, his shoulders sagging and his chin nearly hitting his bony chest in a display of sincere remorse.

John looked at Sherlock sternly. What he saw moved him; the wizard child might be taller, and obviously was accustomed to living a very fine life, but everything about him told John that he’d never had a proper friend. Sherlock had at least recognised that he’d done something hurtful, even if John hadn’t understood at the time. After a moment’s consideration John took Sherlock’s hand; leading him inside where he ordered a meal that he liked, and one that he thought Sherlock might enjoy. “Just don’t do it again.”

They sat at a small table with a tray between them, and John watched as Sherlock examined their food like it was the most astonishing treasure he’d ever laid eyes on. “You must demonstrate the proper dining technique,” demanded Sherlock haughtily. John bit into his hamburger, feeling a bit self-conscious because Sherlock was staring hard at every move John made. Gingerly the posh boy used his fingers to pick up his sandwich, and with obvious deliberation attempted to replicate John’s well-practiced moves. When he succeeded John got to witness the happiest and most delighted smile he’d ever witnessed. “This is brilliant. It’s like food, _almost!_ ”

“It _is_ food,” defended John. He was a little bit sensitive now that he knew some people thought ill of _his sort_. He wasn’t going to put up with a lot of insults though, he’d show Sherlock a better way if that’s what it took.

“If you say so, John.” Sherlock took another bite, rolling his eyes with great satisfaction. “This is even better than I imagined. Even as we speak I can feel my arteries clogging up with the amount of saturated fats and sodium we’re ingesting.” He seemed very pleased with the idea.

John was a little disgusted at the image that popped into his mind but that didn’t stop him from eating his food while it was hot. After all, he wanted to be a doctor when he was grown, and doctors had to deal with inside bits a lot. He couldn’t allow himself to be squeamish about things like that. “Try the chips, then.”

Sherlock did. John was entertained during the rest of their meal by Sherlock who gave a bite by bite verbal analysis. He’d never enjoyed fast food more. When their chips and burgers were gone John went up and ordered dessert. Sherlock immediately tried to order a hundred more in a very serious tone. The chocolate sauce on the sundae was obviously a hit, despite that, John decided to put his newly-endowed veto powers to good use. “You’ll likely manage just the one dessert. It’s pretty sweet, and you’re not used to this kind of thing. It’s probably better to ease into it all, you’ll be ill otherwise.”

Sherlock was pleasantly full by the time he ate his portion. “I told you I’d made the right choice. I might have been very uncomfortable if not for your restraint.” John clearly had nurturing qualities. Sherlock felt a surge of something. It was hungry in a different way, greedy for someone who paid attention to him, who noticed him, who appreciated him for who he was. Mummy didn’t give praise for doing well, it was the least she expected from her children. Praise from her meant doing something extraordinary. Sherlock didn’t enjoy being told what to do, but somehow it didn’t feel that way with John. The boy had made a very reasonable argument, and acceding to John’s wishes didn’t feel like he was doing something he _had_ to. It had been his choice. The feeling gripped him with greater intensity. It felt very important to keep John near him for some reason. It made him feel like anything could be possible, anything at all, if he had someone like John Watson to steady rough moments.

John blushed at the odd compliment and thanks. Sherlock was very sincere and John felt very warm inside all of a sudden. He enjoyed how satisfied he felt, how nice it was to have someone to be with, who wanted to be with him, and who wasn’t put out by John’s mere existence. Sherlock didn’t think of John as some kind of burden to be dealt with, or a bother to have to put up with. Instead he thought that John might be able to help him with things. John’s parents loved him, yes, but in order to make their small life go both of them had to work long hours. John rarely saw them, and had spent most of his free time being ignored by Harry. He was a lonely child, and recognized that Sherlock was the same. He hoped Sherlock didn’t mind if John fussed over him a bit. It felt good, and made John feel valued and valuable. “I’ll help you but _not_ for money. I just want to be your friend, I don’t need to be paid for doing things with you, or for you.”

Sherlock felt the strange sensation grow even more complex. This felt like a significant moment, like they were making a magic pact of some kind, except there was no magic, not here. “If I want to get things for you, then I will, John. I don’t want to argue about it in the future.” He couldn’t let Mummy have any reason to take John from him, and Mycroft would be watching over him in her stead, even if he wasn’t at school any longer. It was his specialty.

John still felt a little strange about Sherlock’s bizarre attitude toward money. For him, every single pound mattered. He had been taught to be sparing and frugal his entire life. Nothing he owned had been new, well, he couldn’t say that any more. When they went back to Diagon Alley, John would have a trunk full of new things, all complements of Sherlock Holmes. His chest felt tight, and John was nearly overwhelmed with an increase in the warmth that he’d initially felt. Sherlock was the strangest person he had ever met; he was so different from anything John had ever encountered before that he was positive that nothing would ever be as amazing as him. With a firm nod he said, “Well, if we’re going to be like that, I suppose we can be best friends. It only seems logical.”

 _Yes, it did._ Sherlock found himself nodding firmly as well. “ _Equals_ , no matter what. We both will have different strengths, of course. Balanced.”

That made perfect sense to John. _No two people were the same. Harry was his twin and they were nothing alike_. “Naturally. Alright Sherlock Holmes, I agree. Equal partners _forever_.” He reached out his hand across the table.

Sherlock took the proffered hand in his. It was so small compared to his but he felt stronger all the same. There was an energy to John, something that let Sherlock know that though he was little, John was filled with more than what met the eye. “Equal partners forever.”

Neither boy mentioned how it felt as if their fingers were giving off sparks, or how each of them now felt like they were _more_ than they had been just a minute previous. Neither of them said a word about how it felt as if a soft ribbon of some kind had wrapped around their entire bodies from head to toe and left them feeling protected, even _loved_ , like armor made of devotion and loyalty instead of steel. All John knew was that he now had a best friend forever, and that was a very important thing indeed. All Sherlock knew was that John was all he needed now, his best friend forever would always be the one he could rely on. They stayed silent on the subject and simply left, still hand-in-hand, and wandered the streets for a while before retracing their steps to make their way back to the brick wall.

They met Carter at _Taicho’s_. This time a pair of young boys brought a small pile of carefully folded clothes, and John was instructed to pack it all away into his trunk, which Carter helpfully opened. The elf brought Mike Stamford with him, the older boy wearing a small collection of pastry crumbs on his waistcoat. “Did you check your list, John? Any trouble anywhere?”

John wondered about his trunk. There shouldn’t be room for everything he’d purchased today but all of it fit neatly inside. With a shrug he closed the lid and snapped the locks closed. Without even thinking about it John took Sherlock’s hand in his again. Sherlock didn’t seem to notice either. “No. Sherlock really helped me out a lot.” John saw Mike looking at their hands, and reflexively he hung on tighter. He knew that when he let go this time, it would officially end the most perfect of days. “Maybe…can we have a minute or so to say goodbye?”

Stamford understood, and without a word simply led Carter down the street to enjoy some window shopping at a respectful distance. Sherlock looked very serious. “John, I have a magic book. I made two when I was much younger. I somehow managed to magically send one to someone else, but it allows me to write messages that you can read if you had one too. If I can make another pair, would you write to me?” He’d get into trouble with the Ministry for casting underage spells, but that wasn’t going to stop him, not if it meant staying in contact with John somehow.

John was very surprised. It seemed blatantly obvious _now_ that his notebook was magical and John wondered why he hadn’t thought that sooner. He’d just accepted it as a valid thing. “I have a magic book too. It just... _appeared_ one day. Are they very common? I’d show it to you but I left it at home.”

“Carter! Come here.” Sherlock called his house-elf over, “Notebook, please.” Carter reached inside his crisp suit and extracted a well-kept booklet. “John?”

Sherlock had taken the book into his hands and presented it to his new best friend. “Is it possible...?” John’s heartbeat was faster than usual. Hope soared. It was the same kind of workbook he had, right down to the green colour, and the childish letters that were patterned into the cover. Sherlock opened it at the back and showed John a blank page, the upper half bare, the bottom half ruled.

“Same,” John cleared his throat. “They’re the same. I have the other notebook.” He smiled up at Sherlock, and felt amazed all over again. _This_ was his lonely friend, the one he’d felt such kinship with. All the messages made sense now, but at some point John was going to ask for more information about combustible bats.

Sherlock looked down at John in utter shock and surprise. “It’s been _you_ this entire time?” John nodded, and Sherlock didn’t know how to sort out the riot of feelings that were welling up inside him. They felt good though. He looked up. John was grinning hugely. “This makes you happy?” Sherlock felt a bit of that too, but also trepidation. He didn’t have friends, not really, except now that he knew his notebook friend was John, Sherlock felt a great sense of relief. _This was fantastic! No wonder he had trusted John so quickly, subconsciously he must have sensed that the small boy was worthy of it_. He didn’t like to name it _intuition_ , but the blood he shared with his mother’s family did grant him certain gifts of awareness.

“Well, yeah.” John couldn’t stop smiling. He’d found his friend! Now he knew who Sherlock was, probably in a way no one knew him. John was willing to bet money that Sherlock had no idea that he would ever meet his pen-pal, that’s why he’d always been so careful about not giving away things like names and locations. All their conversation had been about feelings. John suspected that Sherlock Holmes didn’t discuss _feelings_ with anyone. “It’s like we’re meant to be best friends. It’s destiny.” He’d heard about destiny in one of the films Harry liked. This seemed to be it. Trying to sound normal John nodded. “Right, then.”

Sherlock took a deep breath, clearly steeling himself to speak. “I’ll write soon. Good day John.” Their hands tangled together one last time, but Sherlock just squeezed hard for a second and stepped back. With a sharp nod of his head, the tall dark haired boy turned around smartly, and strode away briskly. Mike Stamford came to stand beside John who watched Sherlock and Carter disappear around a corner. Carter still had John’s trunk, and his parrot. At first he was going to call after the pair, and quickly decided not to. Sherlock could look after his bird. John would have no way of explaining it to his parents, nor any way to provide it proper food or anything. He didn’t have much space in his bedroom either, the trunk had taken up more than it’s fair share. Now it would be safe from Harry, and John knew he could trust Sherlock to bring it to school with him. He didn’t know why he knew, he just did.

The messages began right away, and now that Sherlock knew it was John on the other end, his notes became convoluted and long. The boys shared every bit of information they could about each other, Sherlock as fascinated with John’s everyday life as John was in turn fascinated by Sherlock’s. Some things bothered him, for instance, John’s parents were oddly calm about his imminent departure. Sherlock explained, via notebook, that the letter they’d received informing them of John’s admission, was charmed, just a gentle spell to help maintain the veil of secrecy that the magic realm required.

Harriet was more relentless than ever regardless of their parent’s acceptance of the upcoming change in John’s life. His sister kept up her systematic destruction of John’s few possessions until dad caught her about to take a pair of scissors to his notebook. John had nearly cried with shock and horror. _His notebook!_ Dad had taken away Harry’s allowance and banished her to her bedroom. John took to carrying his notebook everywhere with him to protect it. Whenever mum and dad were at work John left the house. Being alone was better than being tormented by his constantly angry sister.

With their notes came orders. Sherlock somehow managed to order a bizarre complement of things, but had nowhere to get them delivered. With no one to turn to, John ended up asking the only other adult he knew for some advice. Mrs. Hudson was very helpful, allowing Sherlock to use her home address for his parcels. She knew the postman too, and arranged for all of Sherlock’s packages to be forwarded safely. In exchange she solicited John to help haul boxes for her. “I’m packing up for the winter,” she declared. “You know I only stay here in the summer.” That was true, so John helped her round up her numerous planters and oddments in preparation for her regularly scheduled departure. A week before he was due to leave, Mrs. Hudson’s haven was empty and John was forced to endure Harry’s company all over again.

Sherlock didn’t seem to sleep; John often woke to find dozens of messages that had been left through the night. His strange new friend didn’t seem to need answers most of the time, he rambled on about every subject imaginable, and it seemed to John that the notes were Sherlock’s way of thinking out loud. He was amazed with his best friend’s obvious intellect, there didn’t seem to be a topic under the sun that Sherlock didn’t know something about. It made the time less miserable regardless of Harry’s efforts. John found that he really missed being with Sherlock, and often spent time mentally re-living their few hours together. It had been the most diverting afternoon ever. Whenever he did so, John found he could deal with his sister with a little more grace. Harry made the last few days drag, but at long last, the summer came to an end.

 


	4. Endings and Beginnings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is excited to be beginning a whole new life, of having a best friend, and even for starting school. There is so much to look forward to.

Finally, the day arrived when Mike Stamford came to pick John up. Mum and dad hugged John hard, not letting go for a long time. “We’re so proud of you, son. We’ll miss you terribly. Write when you can.” Harry was in her room voluntarily, refusing to say goodbye to her brother, and most certainly refusing to wish him well. That was fine with John, at least she wasn’t taking his last few minutes with their parents from him.

“I will.” John and Sherlock both planned on writing their families once a week, just enough to make their families feel in touch with their children. Just because they couldn’t phone or video call back and forth didn’t mean they had to lose contact completely! Mike gave a sympathetic smile to dad who was doing his best not to cry openly like mum was. John gave them both one last hard hug before leaving, hefting a small rucksack over his shoulder. Inside were his few remaining treasures, including his notebook. Whatever was left in his room was sure to be used as stress relief by his sister, and John had made his farewells to those items already. He had Sherlock’s debit card in his slim wallet and used it to pay for the ride to the station. Mike was a bit embarrassed to have forgotten that things like cabs needed paying for, and John was grateful that Sherlock had made the thing available for his use.

Walking through a different wall was a very odd experience for John, but not terrible. He was mentally braced for a good deal of strangeness. He would have gone through any number of experiences to get this journey started. Once he was through Mike handed him a small bag containing his brand new school robe. It was wrapped in a cloak with a tag on it that read _Taicho_. John pulled it over his clothing and felt a bit better now that he was garbed the same as all the other children swarming the very full train station. There were carts and over-packed trunks everywhere, guarded by anxious parents. He could hear cats, dogs, birds, and other familiars in their cages, baskets, or tanks. John searched the heaving mass of people until he caught sight of inky black curls and pale skin. “Sherlock!”

Grins broke out on the faces of both boys. John pushed his way through the crowd and threw his arms around his friend. Sherlock reciprocated instantly, wrapping John up in a wiry hug, and even leaning down a bit to press his cheek to John’s hair. “Well look at that, they really _are_ boyfriends.” A mocking round of laughter was heard as John and Sherlock slowly parted.

“Salamistra,” Sherlock’s voice was dry and expressionless. “I see your summer dalliance continues.” The same girl from Diagon Alley was there, and the same small bitter looking boy was with her.

“I could say the same. He’s a bit _below_ your society though, isn’t he Holmes? Is he some kind of pet? Wait, is _he_ what you got for a familiar? That would explain so much!” Salamistra’s laughter was unkind, and her dark eyes were filled with contempt as she examined John openly. “He’s so bloody small. Is he part house elf? He’s ugly like one. Still, _your sort_ can’t be very discriminating, can they?” The smile on her face was cruel and taunting.

John knew he shouldn’t allow himself to feel affected by the dark girl’s words but they hurt. He was very self-conscious. His new clothes and robe felt strange, and he wasn’t sure he looked like he should be there despite the fact that he was dressed almost exactly the same as Sherlock. He was in a whole new place without anyone he knew other than his best friend, and suddenly John felt anxiety well up. Sherlock merely cocked his head to the side and examined the girl in front of them, his thumb rubbing the back of John’s hand to calm him, “Sally...may I call you Sally, or do you prefer Salamistra? It doesn’t matter,” Sherlock waved his other hand elegantly. “I can see that your mother is making you wear the _traditional_ robes of House Donovan. Too bad the royal purple has faded so, but might I add, _The Great Hemming of 1646_ is holding up well, the bottom of your robe is hardly tatty at all. Maybe yours is the generation that old rag finally wears out. I’m certain the mothball odour will eventually fade away.” Sherlock paused to sniff dramatically. “Apologies, that’s from Anderson. Hello, Philip. I’m thrilled you got your letter. It will be good for the morale of the other students to have someone in class that they’re better than.”

John couldn’t stop the laugh that escaped him. The bitter looking boy stepped forward, attempting to loom over them both. “Shut right the hell up, Holmes. Your _Mummy_ isn’t here to protect you. Don’t start the year off by encouraging other students to…”

“To what?” Sherlock was surprised to find John had stepped forward a pace. “We’re not even _at_ school yet, and the pair of you are already giving us grief. What do you think you can do to me...Anderson, was it? Tell me Anderson, do you know magic?” Anderson scowled. “You don’t. Even if you did you are not allowed use it. Not yet, at least. So… you can’t use magic against me. What else? Can you fight? Ever _hit_ someone Anderson?” John took another step forward, his wee fists balled tight, and Sherlock was further surprised to witness Salamistra and Philip both step backward almost reflexively. They outweighed John by at least a stone each, and were several inches taller than him. Neither of them seemed to be remembering that right now. Sherlock grinned. _John was fantastic._

“We’re not animals,” spat Sally. “We don’t need to roll about the floors like cavemen.” She didn’t seem to notice that she was still edging backward slowly.

“No, you can just make rude comments, look down on those around you, and try to cause trouble. Go away. Sherlock and I have catching up to do.” John’s frown was slight but it made his entire little face forbidding. Sally and Philip both dragged their luggage away, climbing onto the nearest train car they could reach. A man on the platform looked at both children sharply and seemed to tick something on a list. Sherlock smiled down at his best friend. It had been reassuring to be able to write John back and forth, but this was so much better. John turned his face up to look at Sherlock. “So. Where’s my parrot?”

The man shouted, “ _First Year_ _students for the Hogwarts Express_ , queue up now. You may refer to me as _Professor Basarab_. Car three is designated for First Year students only! Keep your voices down. From this moment forth you will behave as ladies and gentlemen, not untrained animals. Courtesy is required at all times. Despite what you might have been told, your school is a very different place than you might expect. _Learn the rules. Listen carefully_. Do as you are told, when you are told to do it, and all will be well.” The very tall, very grim looking person wore a dark velvet suit and was holding a roll of paper. He seemed intent on examining faces as children filed past him. He was dressed in grey so dark it hinted at being black. He had a large cravat pinned beneath his chin, fastened with a dragon shaped pin, and it twinkled like it was made of diamonds. Smoky round glasses were clipped to his nose, and he seemed very serious, his sharp eyes seemed to see everyone. Without looking he used a large black quill to check people off his list. “There’s exactly enough seats for all of you, look for a place to sit down. In you go.”

“Carter was instructed to find a car for us, and to wait with our things.” Sherlock smiled fondly at John, taking up his hand again to lead him to the train. “Come along John.” Sherlock felt actual anticipation now. He hadn’t originally been looking forward to going away to school, but having a friend made a tremendous difference, and a Muggle friend at that. He was looking forward to introducing John to the magical world he’d grown up in, and in return, John was teaching him all about Muggle existence.

They found Carter sitting inside a compartment, resting on top of their trunks. Sherlock’s octopus was attached to his head like a hat, and John’s parrot sitting on top of the octopus, both animals appearing very comfortable with one another. “Carter is not a perch!” snapped Sherlock, extending his arm imperiously. “Off,” John swore his parrot rolled its eyes before flapping almost lazily toward its owner, settling on John’s shoulder with graceful ease. Affectionately the bird rubbed its head against John’s cheek, tugged a few strands of hair gently with his beak, and then settled itself comfortably. The octopus disengaged almost arrogantly, throwing a tentacle toward its master, and making its way up Sherlock’s arm casually to settle on his shoulder just like John’s parrot had settled on his. “Wretched creatures.”

Before John could say a word there was a tap on the glass of the door. “Er...hello? Hey, I’m Robin. Do you mind if I sit with you?” There was a tall dark-haired boy standing nervously in the entrance, he shuffled awkwardly. “Only, the other seats are all already taken.” He had messy looking ginger hair, pale blue eyes, and broad shoulders. He was as young as John and Sherlock, so despite his height and the width of those same shoulders, he was skinny and gangly looking. “I don’t really know anyone, so...yeah.”

John stuck out his hand. “Robin? Hello, come in. I’m John Watson, this is Sherlock Holmes.” His instinctive hospitality kicked in automatically, “We’ve lots of room, this side is entirely empty.” He indicated the bench opposite him.

Sherlock was frowning a bit. He didn’t want to share their compartment with a stranger but then again, they would have to accommodate at least one more. Each car was fitted with rooms made for four people exactly, house-elves not included. “Robin _what?”_ He knew most of the magical families, and couldn’t immediately recall anyone named _Robin_. Was the boy a Muggle like John?

The boy’s cheeks pinked a tiny bit but proudly he said, “Robin _Reliant_. I got my letter kind of last minute. I didn’t think I was going to get one at all.”

John stared at the boy with some amusement. “ _Robin Reliant?_ Seriously?” He struggled not to giggle.

Robin looked down at John, his cheeks going redder than before. “Yes, why? Is it odd?” He seemed anxious, and twisted the corner of his robe nervously.

John shrugged. He’d expected nothing _but_ odd but did the lad realize his name was almost exactly the same as a rather clunky looking motor? “No, it’s nice,” he replied politely. For all John knew, the name _John Watson_ meant something horribly embarrassing to wizards. He wasn’t going to judge.

“Oh. Hello?” There was a small girl standing in the hallway now. She seemed timid and almost afraid. John’s protective instincts kicked in immediately. “Is there room…” she stopped talking and blushed so hard her entire face turned red. The girl turned to leave, even though they all knew there was no place for her to go.

“Yeah, come on in.” John sat beside Sherlock, and watched as Robin gallantly took the girl’s trunk and managed to heave it up onto the storage rack. A small furry face peeked out from her robes then disappeared again. “What was that?”

“Oh. That’s my familiar…er…sort of. Um. I just got her.” The girl blushed all over again, “My name is Molly. Molly Hooper.” She was dark of hair, and pale of skin. John wondered for a minute if he was the only child on the train that saw sunlight on a regular basis. She had little bats as hair-clips, but also wore a necklace made up of a string of brightly colored disks with smiley faces. John was startled to see that the bats were real, just gripping her hair as was clearly their job. No one else seemed to find this odd so he said nothing.

Sherlock and Robin introduced themselves, and their familiars. Robin shyly extracted a small jar from his robe. It was filled with ashes that twinkled dully. “That’s not tobacco _or_ wood ash,” declared Sherlock. “I know ash. I’ve done _studies_.” Suddenly he sat forward and exclaimed with obvious excitement, “A phoenix! I’ve only heard of one wizard who had a phoenix as a familiar!”

Robin suddenly looked uncomfortable. “I’m aware. This is not the same one. This one is a...well, he’s not much more than an actual fledgling. I came across his egg the day he was born. _Properly_ born, not just moulting.”

John didn’t really follow along but Sherlock and Molly both seemed to know exactly what Robin was talking about. “I don’t understand.”

Sherlock looked at John and nodded toward the jar. “When they moult, they burst into flame, are reduced to ash, and are remade once more. Phoenix are legendary creatures, and for thousands of years many people believed that there could be only one.”

John blinked. “You mean like _The Highlander_?”

“What? Who is that?” Sherlock was frowning, and John gestured for the boy to simply continue. “Phoenix _aren’t_ singular. There are droves of them but they very seldom allow themselves to be taken as a familiar. That one has chosen Robin at the very beginning of its long life is a mark of great honor.”

“Mine is the parrot.” John felt a bit foolish now if Robin got a _mythological_ bird whilst John’s familiar was currently hanging upside down from the trunk rack and apparently sleeping, it’s little body swaying back and forth with the motions of the train.

“John’s familiar is one of the smartest of the bird species on the entire planet, on par with dolphins. It can be taught words in more than a half-dozen languages, be trained to perform a multitude of tasks. It also has basic tool-using capabilities, is an astonishing vocal mimic, capable of pretending to be all manner of animal, at least by sound.” Sherlock rattled off facts about John’s pet as if reading a list. John was surprised. “Of course I researched it John, I had to feed it, did I not?”

“What does it eat?” He didn’t even know the first thing about his parrot, and wondered at himself for not doing as Sherlock had done, and at least looked it up somehow.

“An easily obtainable assortment of fruits, nuts, and leafy veg. I just get Carter to raid the kitchen whenever it’s hungry. It’s a boy parrot.” Sherlock sat back and let his octopus climb onto his chest, “I’ve named this one Isaac, after Sir Isaac Newton, the Muggle who defined the law of gravitation, that singular force that affects everything.” Sherlock sounded tender, and Isaac reached an appendage upward to throttle the boy affectionately before coiling back down again, settling in Sherlock’s lap. Curiously, Isaac reached another arm out and patted his way up and down the John’s arm, pulling itself over until it was lounging comfortably on the boy’s belly. Suddenly Isaac’s coloring blurred, and everyone watched as the animal seemed to blend right in with John’s clothing, almost disappearing entirely. “He’s a terrible show-off,” said Sherlock with a great deal of affection. “He’s nearly as smart as John’s bird.”

“Mine is a snub-nose…well, she’s a monkey. Er, she’s not very clever, but then, she’s just a baby. I don’t think she was meant to be a familiar, but she was hit with a stray spell during a family safari and…” the girl trailed off. “Well, I couldn’t just leave the poor thing behind, could I? Not that she lets me go far without her, not now.” Molly burst into tears, “Her mum didn’t want her anymore, and I didn’t even _know_ I could do magic then! Mum and Papa are still so surprised, but proud, yes of course, but poor little abandoned thing! I was just trying to take her picture, not ruin her little monkey life!” Molly was crying loudly now, and all three boys sat there uncomfortably, none of them with any idea on how to comfort a sobbing girl.

The little creature had its small arms tangled in the girl’s hair, it’s eyes getting larger the more Molly cried. Suddenly it hissed savagely and bared surprisingly long fangs at them. “We’re not doing anything!” shouted John. Sherlock’s hand was in his once more, and Isaac went from being invisible to being on full alert nearly as quickly as John’s parrot, which dropped from the rack and landed in front of John, it’s wings spread wide, and its beak open.

“Don’t hurt her! This is my fault.” Molly pulled the little monkey out of her hair and stroked it until it calmed down. “ _I_ did this to her, it was an accident, I swear. She’s very protective of me, I shouldn’t have gotten so upset. I’d been reading this book on other monkey species and some are quite violent, and I must have been thinking about it when I tried to use mum’s wand to take a picture, which I know I shouldn’t have done, but I did anyway, and then it all went very wrong. Now she can be quite...savage...except with me, and so I have to take care of her.”

“You _accidentally_ charmed a normally docile primate into thinking it was a larger more war-like creature?” Robin looked stunned after Molly nodded her head. “That’s amazing.” His tone was full of admiration.

“You really think so?” Molly sniffled, and Robin handed her a handkerchief. “Thank you.”

“What did you name her?” John asked kindly.

“Lucy. If she’d been a boy I would have called her Lucifer, she’s a bit of a devil.” Molly mopped away the last of her tears. “What are you calling your parrot?”

“Monty,” said John instantly. “Long story, I just like it.” Just then a lady with a rolling cart came by, offering odd sounding treats for sale. Sherlock bought one entire side, and everyone, even Carter, got to try a taste of everything. John thanks Sherlock for the purchase. He’d used a careless handful of coins he’d dug from his robe pocket. “I don’t have a magic debit card to hand over,” he teased Sherlock.

“That still works, by the way.” Sherlock was smiling. “Lots of magical establishments have card-readers now.”

“Only they’re actual people, not mechanoids,” corrected Molly, her voice small. “I know about _some_ Muggle things. My parents enjoy traveling.”

“They work for the goblin bank, fully protected by financial spells so they can’t be stolen, nor can they be forced to take money from an account without proper access. It’s all very convenient,” Robin assured John with a smile. His face was filled with innocent curiosity, and as he leaned in to look at John closer he confessed, “I actually don’t know much about Muggles at all. I didn’t even know there were any free ones left. I was raised by my great-grandmother, or at least, that’s what she called herself. She’s always made it sound like Muggles were kept in zoo displays or something. She’s never really spoken about it, not clearly at any rate. It’s all a bit muddled actually.”

All four children managed to chat their way through their journey, and time seemed to go by quickly. Sherlock and John relaxed easily beside one another, simply enjoying their proximity. John was enjoying getting to know Molly and Robin. Both children asked strange questions about Muggles, and he laughed his way through their various misconceptions about how his life really was. He could see that many such conversations would be required in the future, and he couldn’t help but notice that Sherlock seemed to be soaking in every word that he spoke. It felt nice. They weren’t holding hands, but it didn’t feel necessary, having Sherlock simply look at him left John feeling very connected to the other boy, and it was enough.

After an hour or so, Professor Basarab came by and took their names once more, checking his list again. “Once the train stops you will gather your luggage, and queue _neatly_ on the platform. Keep your familiars contained, and make sure you are dressed warmly. It’s a bit of a nippy end to the trip.” After Professor Basarab left there was a bit of turn-taking as each child managed to dig out scarves and hats from their trunks, taking turns because only one unit could be opened at a time, but by the time they were ready the train had noticeably slowed.

John wasn’t certain if he was more nervous or if Molly was. She seemed even more timid than ever as they stood to leave. Robin stood behind her, and John filed after him, followed by Sherlock and Carter. “Just stay close to me John, you will be alright.” Sherlock’s voice was low enough that only John could hear him speak, so he nodded back to show that his words had been heard.

The Professor was reviewing his list on the platform when they came off the train. All the children were much subdued, and John noticed that all of them seemed to want to remain in the small groups of four. Once everyone had been accounted for a third time, Professor Basarab led them through a large stone arch and onto a wide quay that stretched out onto a dark and chilly looking lake so vast that John could not see the other side, especially now that it was close to dusk. He was surprised at the lateness of the day. He had been sure that the journey had taken barely an hour, and they had left London at mid-day. John looked about, taking in the tall pointy mountains, the ice-capped peaks, and the almost rich purple of the darkening sky, and realized that they were further away from London than Leeds.

“Four to a boat, don’t mess about, keep your limbs on the inside, and for goodness sake, try not to panic.” The Professor was standing at the end of the quay, and checking his long list again. Sherlock saw that little boats were tied along the railings, and that each had a small number painted on its prow. As groups climbed in, the Professor was noting the number of the boat next to the name of each child that got into it. “Careful getting in! If you get wet, you’re going to be very chilled before we even get to the school-grounds. Your misery is preventable!”

Robin climbed into the eighth boat. He was reaching out to take Molly’s hand when Anderson and Donovan pushed past. Anderson’s rolling trunk knocked into the small girl and with a shriek Molly fell forward. Before anyone could even blink, the Professor was there, catching Molly mid-fall. “Caution Miss Hooper, you must learn to be aware of your surroundings at all times, to guard against those who would harm you, even by accident.” The irritation in the Professor’s voice was entirely gone, replaced with respectful deference. He looked down at Molly for a long moment. “Safe journey, Miss Hooper.”

“Sir,” squeaked Molly, her eyes wide, but the Professor had already gone, shouting after Anderson to be more considerate of others, and chiding him for being a menace to all. He climbed into the very first boat alone, and sat down facing forward.

“Are you alright, Molly?” Robin’s face was filled with concern, but Molly was staring off at the Professor, too distracted to answer immediately. Both John and Robin helped her aboard, followed by Sherlock. John hopped in easily, and sat on the front seat with his best friend while Robin sat with Molly in the back. It was already quite cold. Though they’d left the city at the ripe end of summer, they seemed to be entering autumn here, wherever this was, and John regretted not putting on another cloak, but Sherlock simply flung his wide garment over John’s shoulders, and the two of them huddled together to share their collective warmth as the boats detached themselves from the dock. Professor Basarab raised his wand. It looked odd, almost like a long thin wooden stake, and appeared to have a great weight to it. Still, the Professor flicked his wrist with careless ease, and one after the other, each boat in turn floated out across the water.


	5. Defining Moments

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John have finally set off for Hogwarts with all the other First Year students!

 

As they floated off there was a great deal of silence at first, but then, mermaids leapt in the distance, and everyone cried out in wonder. “The lake has many inhabitants,” Professor Basarab’s voice seemed to come from everywhere. “All of them are dangerous. Do not take Merfolk for granted. They honour your arrival, and will not act directly against you, but interfere with their demesne, and they will find ways of making you very sorry you had.”

Isaac crawled off of Sherlock and made his way to the prow where he clung with six arms to dangle over the water, two tentacles dancing in and out of the wetness. Monty seemed perfectly happy to remain in his cage. He craned his head around, twisting it in every possible direction, but otherwise seeming unbothered by the amazing sights all around them.

John held fast to Sherlock, gasping over and over again as magical creatures made themselves known all around him. “Water sprites are one of the many sentient species that dwell in the lake. Please do not accept any of their gifts, they’ll want to take you home, and regrettably, you would drown. Let’s avoid that, shall we?” Professor Basarab’s tone was unbearably lecturing. “One of the largest inhabitants is actually one of the gentlest.” Isaac shot backwards from the water as a massive surge welled upward almost directly beneath them. “Careful now, it looks as if…yes…my this is a surprise,” he sounded impressed. “Ladies and gentlemen, meet the _Giant Squid_.”

A monstrous tentacle came up over the edge of their boat, and a huge mass shifted their vessel a tiny bit. Molly screamed when they were jolted to the side, but as soon as she did so, the massive creature sank back into the deep. Isaac scooted back to the prow, this time hanging down by a single arm. “Isaac, _no!_ ” cried Sherlock. Everyone heard the loud splash the octopus made as it flung itself into the lake. A moment later the water boiled upward again, and there was an eruption of large bubbles that made the entire small fleet bob up and down wildly for a moment. “Isaac!” shouted Sherlock into the now still surface.

“Sit back boy! Don’t chase after it!” snapped Professor Basarab. “I’ve never seen an octopus before, but if I understand correctly, it should be better off under water than _you!_ Don’t worry, we’ll report your familiar for going overboard, and we’ll find it soon enough. Patience, lad.”

“Sir!” protested Sherlock. “I have to…”

The Professor cut him off smartly, “ _You_ have to be at the gates of the school in precisely five minutes, that’s what you have to do. I said not to worry, boy. My duty was to shepherd you all safely to school, and that’s what I mean to do, even if I have to find that creature myself. Now sit.”

Sulky, Sherlock sat and scowled at the back of the Professor’s head. His eyes were a bit red as if he were fighting back tears. “Don’t worry Sherlock. You and I will search the shores as soon as we can. We’ll find Isaac.” John promised his friend and gave Sherlock a comforting hug. “Octopuses are very smart. He’s probably off having a bit of a look around.”

“Octopi,” sniffled Sherlock. “Not octopuses. It’s a common error.”

“Whatever. Isaac will be okay,” John hoped so. He had seen how happy having an octopus had made Sherlock, and he knew from their many private conversations, that being _happy_ wasn't something Sherlock got to feel very often.

The quay they arrived at was nearly identical to the one they’d left behind, and for a moment John wondered if they’d merely toured the lake and come back to their starting point. It was then that he noticed that instead of a train station, the stone archway led to even wider stone staircases, and on them stood a very large, very cheerful looking man. “Vlad! You made it back just in time.”

Professor Basarab frowned slightly and consulted a large, ornate pocket-watch. “This is when we were supposed to arrive, so yes, just in time.”

The huge man just grinned. “Hey kids, I mean, _ladies and gentlemen_ , welcome to _Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry_. I’m Professor deStone, I’m a Head of House here, as is Professor Basarab, but today I’m here to lead you to the main hall! Come on!” With a warm smile the massive professor urged them all to climb the stairs. “Leave all your stuff here. Don’t worry, all of it will show up safely in your rooms.”

“Carter, stay safe.” Sherlock looked down at his house-elf with great seriousness. “Just remember that you work for me, and not for the school. You don’t have to do anything anyone else tells you.” Carter nodded, and swallowed hard, showing the first bit of nervousness that John had yet witnessed.

“Monty will protect you,” he promised spontaneously. Monty flew over and sat on their trunks, managing to ruffle up his feathers to make himself bigger, and glared around everywhere, clearly obeying John’s wishes. Carter relaxed and nodded, offering a small shy smile in thanks.

Everyone crowded into a small holding room at the top of the stairs. Professor deStone looked everyone over. “Everyone good? Yes? Okay, then.” He took on a more serious expression. “We are about to enter the great dining hall. There are four sections, one per House. There are four Houses that make up Hogwarts; Huffelpuff, that’s mine, Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin, that’s Basarab. Once we go inside, all you need to do is stand there until the Headmistress calls your name to be sorted. Okay? Good. In we go.”

Large doors seemed to swing themselves open, and all the children crowded together in a tight bunch as they walked in. Four long rows of tables split the great hall into even sections, and all of them had empty seats at the end closest to the front of the room. The rest of the table was filled with students, some barely older than them, but others clearly on the verge of graduation. A few of them stared almost predatorily at the new students, though most were smiling and friendly, but being examined with such intensity made John feel a bit unnerved.

A stern-faced and imposing woman stood on a raised stage at one end of the enormous room. Behind her were an array of other adults, all seated at a long table facing the assembly. They ranged in appearance from very tall to very small, and all points in between. The woman was so commanding though, that John could barely take their presence in. Her hair was tightly done up in a bun, without a single hair out of place. Her dress covered her from her chin right down to the floor, and was remorselessly black except for her waistcoat which was a complicated tartan, rich in greens. “Welcome First Years. I am Minerva McGonagall, _Headmistress_.” Her eyes were sharp, and she seemed to examine all of them down to their very souls with a single glance. Beside her was a chair, and resting upon it was a tattered and pointed hat. “Professor deStone has likely already explained what is about to happen. When I call your name you will come up, take up the Sorting Hat, place it upon your head, and wait to see which House you belong to. Once you have been sorted, join your fellow House members at the appropriate table, and when we are done, dinner will be served.”

“John.” Sherlock was suddenly nervous. This was the most important moment as far as Mummy was concerned. Sherlock knew what was about to happen but he didn’t want it to. “John,” he said again.

“Sherlock, it’s okay. We’ll end up in the same house, you just watch.” John had no idea about Houses, but everyone else seemed to find it perfectly normal. He didn’t exactly understand the _Sorting Hat_ , and nearly jumped in shock after Anderson went up and put it on. _The thing was alive!_ It moved at least, and seemed to be speaking to the boy beneath it.

“Slytherin!” it cried, and one whole row of tables erupted into applause. Anderson seemed very pleased, and went to sit down with a smile on his face. John watched the rest of their group get quickly sorted. Donovan ended up in Slytherin as well. It wasn’t until Sherlock took his hand away that John realized his friend’s turn had come.

Sherlock walked the tables anxiously. Leaving John had been difficult, and he felt adrift already. The Sorting Hat seemed threatening, and he swallowed hard before picking it up. Sitting down, Sherlock closed his eyes, and stuck it bravely onto his head. “Fascinating,” a voice whispered in his ear. “I’ve only come across this once before.”

“What?” Sherlock was wishing as hard as he could.

“A _choice_ , young wizard. Like with the other, I will allow you to choose. You would do well in Slytherin. There is much power to be had, much that a mind such as yours could accomplish from what you would learn there. The ramifications of your association with that House will resonate through your life, and lives of those closest to you…”

“No,” whispered Sherlock. He’d heard _stories_ and he didn’t want to be a part of them. “Please, no.”

“You will make many powerful friends,” the Hat did not sound as if it was trying to tempt him. It sounded like it was merely stating facts, “You will have access to arcane knowledge that other Houses do not specialize in.”

“You know I don’t want Slytherin.” He did, but he didn’t. Sherlock grew resolute.

“Very well,” the Hat seemed amused. “Let us hear your choice.”

Sherlock swallowed again. His mother was going to be so angry. “Ravenclaw,” he whispered wretchedly. Mummy had not _said_ implicitly. That was a very important loophole. Mycroft had unintentionally taught his little brother about legally binding wording, and once he’d worked out how to avoid making this _one_ choice, Sherlock promised himself that he would make the one that appealed to him most. “I don’t want to just know _some_ things. I want to know _everything_.”

“ _Ravenclaw!_ ” shouted the Hat. Sherlock dimly heard the members of his new house applauding, and numbly he made his way to them. John seemed so far from him now, and Sherlock began to worry afresh.

John clapped with everyone else, and wondered why his best friend looked so shaken. He made a note to ask Sherlock later. He watched as Molly ended up in Slytherin, and felt a bit surprised because Donovan and Anderson were there too, yet Molly was nothing like the two of them. Professor Basarab nodded politely at her when she took her seat, and she gave John a thumbs up just as Robin was called.

Robin was sorted into Hufflepuff, and Professor deStone led the roar of shouts and cheers that erupted as they enthusiastically welcomed him. At long last, and nearly the only one left standing, John was finally called. Taking a deep breath, and keeping his steps even and careful, John made his way to the chair. The Hat felt heavy, and almost too big, as if it were about to slip past his ears, but it still managed to stay on. “Oh, _no_ question,” said the Hat with some surprise in it’s dry whispery voice. “This is meant to be, yes, there is only one choice for you.”

“What?” John had no idea. He was unfamiliar with all the Houses _and_ talking hats.

“ _Gryffindor!”_ shouted the Hat with assurance, and whispered once more to John, “You will eventually thank me for this choice. Take heart, young wizard, and trust that I do what is best for all.”

John realized at once what the problem was. Sherlock was staring at him miserably from one table, but John was being waved over to another. _They were in different Houses!_ He wasn’t sure of the arrangements, but in the back of his mind John had just assumed that he and Sherlock would be together all the time.

By the time he’d found a place to sit, Sherlock had turned away. John couldn’t catch his eye, and missed the part of the introductory speech. The Headmistress had introduced the other professors, and was now saying something about having dinner before being assigned their rooms. “Since the last Dark War, many changes have been put into place at this school. Our aim is for unity, not division; a reworking of the very fabric of our society, beginning with you.” She looked over the gathered students. “During your studies you will earn or lose points. Those points are awarded _to_ or penalized _from_ your House. Outside of classes, Hogwarts has instituted a _cross-house_ integration program. Pairs of you will be assigned your own rooms, each of you representing your House. This method will prevent the great divide from occurring again, a social chasm which nearly ripped this ancient school to pieces.” She paused. “Each of you is expected to develop your strengths, and to shore up your weaknesses. Help those around you in whatever way is best for you both. The magical community as an entirety depends on our ability to coordinate and cooperate. During _special events_ you are expected to dress in your House colors, and to sit at your House table during meals, otherwise we make no rules about seating.”

John felt relief loosen the muscles of his mid-section. At least he’d be able to spend _some_ time with Sherlock. Maybe their classes would be the same, or at least complimentary so they wouldn’t be separated entirely. Sherlock was still keeping his back rigidly to John, and the small boy wished they had their notebooks at least, he would have been able to send some kind of reassuring message or something.

Sherlock was as unhappy as he’d ever been. He’d gotten exactly what he’d planned for, he’d made it into Ravenclaw safely. Now he was cursing himself for his choice. He hadn’t thought about John at all when he’d made it, how stupid could he be not to realize that John wouldn’t somehow make it into Ravenclaw with him? John was brilliant, true, but not _academically_. His best friend was so blatantly _Gryffindor_ that Sherlock couldn’t help but feel like a great huge crevasse had developed between the two of them, and he couldn’t bear to look at John just then. If he did, Sherlock was afraid he would begin to cry, and he was far too _mature_ for tears.

When the food appeared, Sherlock had no appetite. Dully he watched pitchers of pumpkin juice appear next to tall glasses of water. Buttered bread rolls preceded a vast array of roasted meats, veg of all description, and with a distant sense of surprise, Sherlock recognized burgers that looked very much like the one he’d eaten this summer with John. He put one on his plate and stared at it sadly. There were all sorts of offerings, many of which he recognized from home, but others were clearly from the Muggle world, and he listened to wizard children all around him ooh and ah over spaghetti with meatballs, slices of pizza with assorted toppings, chips, pork pies, and a monstrously huge platter of mashed potatoes dripping with thick rich gravy. He took a small spoon of that, and a sausage, but put not a single bite into his mouth. He was too upset to eat.

John was purely amazed. He recognized at least half the food, but some of it was just strange. The other children at his table seemed to be enjoying themselves greatly, serving huge portions of everything, and the platters remained full despite how much food everyone was shoveling in with fork, knife, and spoon. He grinned when he spotted a large tray of hamburgers, and he ate one gleefully, recalling that perfect meal in the summer when he’d spent those glorious hours with Sherlock. John was determined to be with his friend in some manner, so he took chips too, but also a bit of roast chicken since it was his favorite, and he hadn’t had ravioli in a really long time, so a couple of those ended up on his plate, and the bread-rolls were magnificent, so that got eaten quickly too, and the chops were literally smoking hot, so he ate one carefully, and in remembrance of his mother, John dutifully ate green salad, and a few slices of carrot.

Dinner vanished and dessert soon took its place. Sherlock looked down at his once-again empty plate, magically cleared and cleaned, and ready for re-use. Cauldron cakes made a showing, as did treacle tarts. There were other cakes, all covered in dustings of fine sugar, or thick swirls of icing. There were squares, and bars, biscuits, and pastries of all sorts. He recognized banoffee pie, and felt the first stirrings of hunger so he ate some. He needed _some_ food to function, after all, his body was the vehicle he had with which to haul his brain about with. Then and there, Sherlock decided it was _just transport,_ and he would treat it as such. He needed fuel, and triple chocolate cake with custard centres had a lot of calories he’d need. He ate one of those too. After a moment to consider, he stuck a few things in his pocket for later.

John felt almost sick by the time pudding showed up. He hadn’t eaten this much since last Christmas when mum had gone all out and cooked for days to make their holiday feast. He still managed to squeeze in a pasty, a small scoop of what turned out to be mango ice-cream, and two or three confections he didn’t recognize, but who could resist the glazing and candied fruits on top? There was a small square of chocolate cake too, dense and rich, and drizzled with raspberry sauce so rich that he could not finish. He was finally full.

The clatter and clamour of the shared meal finally died away, and John was amazed all over again when everything on their table disappeared, and was replaced by a small band of metal that appeared where everyone’s plate had been. Professor McGonagall stood and spoke again, “Each student is required to wear a Hogwarts bracelet. Each is individually enchanted, and will tell you which class you are to be in, where your room is, and so forth. A small message will flash, so make sure you check them if you find yourself lost in the school, or whenever you are unsure of where you are supposed to be. Your bracelet will guide you to your room assignment. Please make sure to unpack, refresh yourself, and to turn in early. You have a long day tomorrow as you will be introduced to the next two semesters worth of classes, that’s eight classes in all. Four will happen before the holidays, and the other four after the holidays. Welcome to Hogwarts. You are dismissed.”

John saw everyone slip their bracelet on and followed suit. All the students were standing, and while he spotted Robin towering over his classmates, he couldn’t see Sherlock at all. With a heavy heart John realized that he might not lay eyes on Sherlock again until breakfast, or possibly even one of his classes, should they be lucky enough to have lessons together.

For his part, Sherlock had slipped his bracelet on immediately. As soon as they were dismissed he strode away briskly, not wanting to linger. All he wanted to do was find his room, try to deal with having a _stranger_ as a roommate, and search for a way to make school bearable. He’d lost John already, this whole deal was turning into a fiasco of epic proportions. On top of that, Isaac was still missing, and Sherlock decided that he’d unpack as instructed, then take Carter to the lake to search for his familiar. Carter could perform _some_ magic after all, and he could be a living torch to light up the darkness when required.

There were masses of students in the wide hallways, but Sherlock didn’t pay attention to the stone-work, or the magnificent pillars. He didn’t see the ornate woodwork, or the fantastical glasswork. He barely took in the paintings that hung everywhere, even if they looked at him, some figures following from frame to frame until he turned a corner. The band of his bracelet had manifested a row of five glowing dots. The centre one was currently green, and the others were red so Sherlock walked straight forward. The green dot shifted left or right when he encountered other hallways, and thus guided, he made his way to his assigned room.

Carter had already unpacked, but Sherlock’s mystery roommate was not. Instead, whomever it was, had a small tower of things in the middle of his area carpet, all draped with a thick opaque cloak. Sherlock could see it was covering a trunk, and something nearly as large, and square. The room was long and a bit narrow, On each end was a single bed, both made up with thick blankets and well plumped pillows. The beds also boasted canopies, and heavy drapes that could close up all around whomever was sleeping inside. The centre of the room was occupied with two study desks bumped end to end, and near each bed was a large wardrobe made of dark wood. Sherlock saw his chair now had a scarf draped over it, and other items besides. The dark blue that took up the majority of the colour scheme suited his pale skin very well and he sighed. “Let’s go, Carter.” He could inspect everything later. He needed to find Isaac.

John finally figured out what his bracelet meant him to do, so he rushed, eager to meet his new roommate, but also in a hurry to excuse himself. He needed to find Sherlock, and find out where Isaac had gone. John wasn’t going to allow his best friend spend their first night at school without at least his familiar with him! They should have planned for this. If he couldn’t get away, he’d at least write Sherlock a message in their notebook to explain.

His room was bigger than he expected, and he found his belongings piled in the very middle. Pulling his new cloak off of it, John found that Monty was sound asleep once more, dozing in the darkness of his cage which was resting on top of John’s trunk. “Wake up, you lazy thing! We have to find Sherlock, and then we have to find Isaac. Monty! Hello? Wake up, bird.”

Monty yawned and peeled an eye open. “ _Bored_ ,” he said.

“You sound just like Sherlock.” John giggled a bit. His parrot’s voice sounded exactly like his best friend. “Come on Monty, help me.” He could unpack later, this was far more important.

“Oh, very well.” Monty stretched his wings, used his beak to flip open the latch on his cage door, and flew to the bedroom door. “Run.”

John ran, dodging around the students still milling in the hallway, following Monty as he flew ahead. They made their way back to the dining hall, and down the stone stairs. John skidded to a halt because there were four hooded and cloaked people standing there, one very short one glowing oddly beneath his cape. “John?”

Sherlock was entirely surprised. He had come back to the quay as a starting point, and had been startled to find Molly and Robin there waiting for him. John ran up only a second later, and Monty flew up to sit on Carter’s hood. “What are you all doing here?”

“We’re going to help you find Isaac, of course.” Molly sounded a bit surprised to be asked. “We’re your friends, aren’t we? Friends should help each other.”

“I didn’t ask for help.” Sherlock didn’t know what to make of it.

John rescued him. “Sherlock’s never had friends, except for me. I expect he had no idea that we would want to give him a hand.”

“Well, we do, and we will,” said Robin firmly. “I’ve never really had friends either. Grandmother didn’t approve, but the maids and butlers were very kind, and our house-elf was amusing.

Carter was standing there, still glowing somehow. John reached into his pocket. “Do you like biscuits?” Carter nodded and looked nervous. “Go on, I saved these for you.” Sherlock smiled, and felt warm inside. He’d saved biscuits for Carter too. He wasn’t exactly sure how meals were arranged for the servants of his house, but he’d always made a practice of bringing his house-elf things. He was fairly sure that the house-elves of Hogwarts were very contented, but Carter didn’t belong with them, and he never would. It was just prudent to look out for him just a little bit extra, it was the very least Sherlock could do to care for his long-time companion. The gloom around him lifted substantially when John looked at him with guileless eyes and said, “I missed you,” and came to stand right next to him.

John felt a million times better once he was back in Sherlock’s company. Dinner had been spectacular, and his new House-mates seemed like nice people, but Sherlock was his best friend, and it was just nicer being in his presence. “Let’s go John.” Sherlock took his hand, and John grinned. It felt right, and with a firm nod, John followed Sherlock off the quay and onto a very rocky shore.


	6. Friendships

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock have made it to Hogwarts, and together, they are experiencing their very first moments at school. Still, there is a very important task they need to accomplish first.

Carter cast his strange light in a huge circle that they all stayed inside. Sherlock handed the house-elf a napkin-wrapped bundle of treats before leading John away. Robin steadied Molly several times as they climbed over small boulders, and made their way through stony beaches to get to a tiny peninsula that jutted a few hundred meters off the shoreline. The moon was coming up, and the light from it made the landscape seem alien and weird. They followed the land to the almost-island at the very end, and there Sherlock shouted down into the water. “ _Isaac Newton Holmes._ You get back here _this instant!_ We didn’t come all this way so you could run away, and have adventures alone!”

All of them stood there and listened. All the insects and night creatures that had prowled about mere seconds ago were quiet. Suddenly, far from shore, the waters boiled up in a now familiar way. Something exploded from the centre and a projectile launched in their direction. Monty gave a loud cry and took off. Intercepting it neatly, the parrot snatched the object out of the air and flew back to John. It was Isaac. The dripping wet octopus hugged its master’s leg hard, crawling up Sherlock’s body quickly, and hugging his head tight. “You naughty thing! How dare you?” It reached out with two other appendages and pulled Sherlock’s mouth into a fake smile. He swatted them away and tried not to _actually_ smile but failed.

John laughed. _This hadn’t been difficult at all!_ Isaac seemed very pleased with himself, and Monty wasn’t worried a bit. In fact, the parrot was sitting on Carter’s hood, preening the wet from his feathers with great casualness. “Oh, my!” Robin exclaimed suddenly. “Well!” All of them turned to witness the tall boy scrabbling at his pockets. The small jar of ash was shaking hard, and he managed to unscrew the top just in time for a small fiery eruption to occur. When the smoke cleared there was a fat fuzzy bird sitting in Robin’s palm. It was blurred around the edges as if it were burning still, and it cheeped out a high pitched sound. “Oh, my,” said Robin again. “Hullo there.”

“Oh, it’s so chubby and fluffy.” sighed Molly rapturously. “How adorable. What are you going to name him? I love animals!” Robin didn’t get a chance to answer. The young girl stepped forward to take a closer look, but her shoe caught on a root and over she went, a shrill squeal breaking the silence of the night. All around them, the forest erupted with noises as birds, insects, and animals of all sorts seemed to cry out a warning. Sherlock and John helped her to her feet, but both boys jumped away when they saw that Molly had managed to fall directly into a nest of snakes. When she rolled away everyone could see there were still broken bits of shell in the small indentation in the ground, and that a swarm of writhing creatures were disappearing off into the darkness. One was tangled in her long brown hair. “ _Babies!”_ was all she said, her voice filled with tenderness. “Oh, poor things. I didn’t mean to scare you. I’m just clumsy.”

“Molly,” said John tensely. “One is in your hair.” The tiny yellow snake had a dark vee on its scaled head, and a thick short body, but it was barely longer than Molly’s hand. She plucked at her hair carefully, trying to catch it but it snarled itself tightly, and seemingly on purpose.

The other little snakes disappeared quickly but the one tenacious wiggler managed to successfully bury itself inside Molly’s hair. “Don’t hurt it! It’s probably just cold.” It curled up around her ear, it’s tiny head resting against her cheek.

“That’s venomous,” reported Sherlock with authority. “If it bites you, necrosis of the flesh is a distinct possibility.”

“Oh, you won’t bite me, will you? You’re just a sweetie, aren’t you? How precious you are, my little snakey wakey.” Molly was obviously entranced. Lucy moved up to sniff at it, and the tiny snake flicked out its tongue to hiss at her. Lucy licked it and the snake did nothing. The monkey made a strange cheeping sound, then simply sat on Molly’s other shoulder calmly.

“It’s _staying_ with you?” John didn’t know what to make of it. Did other children let poisonous snakes crawl over them with such poise? Molly seemed entirely unperturbed, but Sherlock and Robin both were keeping a safe distance. John leant closer to look at the reptile, and it hissed threateningly at him, it’s entire body seeming to puff up. Lucy rumbled with menace as well, siding with her new tiny companion.

“Well, if it wants to!” replied Molly defensively. “I didn’t ask it to but if it wants, I wouldn’t mind, and neither does Lucy.”

Isaac stuffed himself into one of Sherlock’s cloak pockets and was apparently settling down. Since their retrieval mission was accomplished, all four students turned themselves around and headed back to the lights of the school. “So, what are you going to name it?” asked John, nodding to the small bird still sitting in Robin’s hand.

He seemed surprised to see it, “Oh. I hadn’t thought about it actually. Um. Perhaps I’ll get to know it a bit first. I’m not really good at this sort of thing, and a phoenix ought to have a very noble name, don’t you think?”

Sherlock nodded. “That seems logical." Everyone nodded in agreement. Robin wrapped the still smouldering chick in his hat and tucked it carefully into his robe pocket.

“We’re supposed to be ready for a head-count in our rooms in twenty minutes.” Robin was looking around as the reached the quay. “I don’t know what happens if we miss that.”

“Well, we’d better not then.” Sherlock sounded reasonable. With a sigh, he extended his arm and looked at his bracelet. “At least we’ll be able to find our way back quickly.” It was flashing urgently, and so was everyone else’s. “Goodnight.”

Everyone bade everyone farewell, and Sherlock sent Carter off to find his proper dinner. As soon as they reached the dining hall, Molly was lead in one direction, and Robin in another, but John and Sherlock kept on the same course. “We must be in the same general area of the school,” John said.

“Obviously,” replied Sherlock. He was pleased. This meant that John was at least close by and maybe wouldn’t mind visits. Their bracelets flashed, and both boys turned left together. “Ravenclaw and Gryffindor historically get on well with one another.”

“I’d have no idea about that.” John didn’t. His head was swimming a bit already with all the things that had happened since this morning. Suddenly he realised that he was entirely exhausted. All he wanted was to change into something soft and warm and to climb into bed to sleep until morning. Their bracelets flashed simultaneously again, and both boys turned right down another hallway. They walked straight for a bit before reaching a stone staircase. “I don’t recall this from before. Does the school change inside like this a lot?”

“Routes do, or so Mycroft said. Don’t worry, our bracelets are still working. I think the school is semi-sentient. It seems to have its own personality. I expect it gets boring seeing the same things all the time and it can at least change its own landscape, as it were.”

“That makes sense.” John thought it did, anyway. “It’s chock full of magic. Some of that has to seep into the rock after a while, wouldn’t you think? I mean, everything around here is full of magic.”

“I suppose John.” Sherlock wasn’t accustomed to _noticing_ magic. It was just there, like air. You didn’t need to think about it. It just was.

John was astonished every second. There were too many strange things everywhere to be able to react appropriately to any of it. Did Sherlock realise that the paintings on the walls were _looking_ at them? One of the characters was audibly critiquing their robes, but others were pointedly looking at various timepieces, letting John know that they were approaching some kind of curfew. Magic was truly wondrous. Any moment now he expected their paths to diverge, but step after step, Sherlock stayed at his side. They’d been walking for a while now. John didn’t recall it taking so long going back to the massive doorway, but then, he’d been running downstairs, and not climbing upward so much. “We must be on the same level or something,” he commented as the stairs eventually ended. “There’s a bunch of hallways next if I remember right.”

“Same.” Sherlock was a bit confused. Mycroft had gone through school in the ancient way, with all Houses staying in their quadrant of the castle. Surely they’d kept something like that going now? He knew he’d be meeting his roommate after saying goodnight to John, so he didn’t mind terribly that the walk was taking much longer than he thought it ought to. When he’d come up after dinner the walk seemed to take barely a minute. Certainly, he’d been unhappily distracted but surely John’s room, and John’s new roommate wasn't _so_ close to him? That wouldn’t be so bad though, would it? At least they’d be able to see each other easily, and that was something. Holding onto his positive thought Sherlock took a deep breath and followed his bracelet down a corridor he now clearly recalled. “This is me.” He paused in front of the large door that marked the entrance to his shared room. _On the other side, a stranger awaited._

John stared at him. “Seriously. _This_ is you?” Monty ruffled his feathers a bit butted his small hard head against John’s. “Ow.”

“Yes. Why?” Sherlock didn’t want to open the door. He didn’t want to meet someone new, didn’t want to have to learn to cohabitate with someone who was most likely moronic and boring. _What if he was trapped with one of those brutes from the sporting teams? They talked about sports all the time! Why would anyone think he had something to say about athletics?_ He’d be compelled to be nice to them regardless because he’d be living right with them for the rest of the school year. _Horrid!_

John answered by walking up to the door and pushing on it. It swung open obediently to let John in. The small boy turned to face his stunned friend. “Nice to meet you, roomie.”

A huge smile split Sherlock’s face. “ _You?_ We get to share a room?”

“It’s fantastic, isn’t it?” John was so happy. Sherlock was still standing in the hallway, and the portraits were beginning to sound cross as they told him to get inside already. “Come on then, I still have to unpack.”

Sherlock went in. He knew his side of the room was ready, but when he stepped in he saw that the pile of things that had waited for John were now gone. He explained, “Oh. I think Carter’s been at your things.” He was so happy right then. He got to share a room with John Watson and not some repulsive stranger! They could study together, do projects together, everything. He wasn’t going to be alone.

John opened his new wardrobe and saw his possessions neatly stowed inside, and that a table had been procured to set Monty’s cage on. He felt strange that Carter had done these tasks for him. He was perfectly capable of hanging up his own clothes and folding away his own jumpers. Monty didn’t seem to care who had taken care of what. His bird flew himself to his cage, tugged the door shut, and hung himself upside down from his perch to sleep. “I swear that bird thinks he’s a bat.” He turned to look at Sherlock only to find his friend a mere pace away from him. “Sherlock?”

Isaac was putting himself away for the night, tugging his jar-lid closed. Sherlock watched his familiar before turning to look at John, the tall boy giving his friend an intense look. “I’m glad it’s you, John.”

John felt his own smile grow larger. “I am too Sherlock. This whole situation just gets better and better.” A knock at the door interrupted their conversation.

Sherlock was closer so he was the one to answer it. He frowned down at the small woman who stood in the hallway, her face wreathed in smiles, and a house-elf peeking from behind her skirts. “Mrs Hudson!” shouted John. “You’re _here!”_

“My dear John!” Sherlock scowled as the old woman was hugged hard by his best friend. “Surprise my dear, surprise!” she turned to the elf behind her. “You can check their names off, Gary. They’re the last two in our sector.”

The house-elf produced a massive scroll, rolling expertly through it until he came to what was apparently their names, making two small check marks with apparent satisfaction. John was happily astonished. “What are you doing here Mrs Hudson?”

“Well, I work here! I’m responsible for Tower B. I’m the one who will make sure your laundry is done, that your rooms are kept tidy, and all sorts of other things. This is Gary, he’s one of Hogwarts’ house-elves, but I see that you have one Master Sherlock.” Mrs Hudson smiled and waved her hand cheerily.

Carter looked nervous, his small hands tugging at his smart jacket anxiously. The strange house-elf outside was dressed in a neat clean length of cloth that reminded John of the picture of ancient Greeks he’d seen once. He realised that the small creature felt out of place, and remembered some of the things Sherlock had taught him about House-elves and clothes. “Carter is mine,” said Sherlock with some heat. “You can’t take him from me.”

Mrs Hudson made a conciliatory gesture. “Why would I want to? Carter is very welcome here. If you want him to live in your room that’s fine, but we do have rooms available especially for him if you want him to have his own. The kitchens are open day and night, we do a lot of cooking here you understand, so he can come eat whenever he has time. He’s welcome to visit the other elves when they’re off their duties, and he can come to Gary or me whenever he needs supplies. Gary is here to show Carter where everything is located in the castle so he can best serve you.”

Sherlock looked at Mrs Hudson suspiciously. In the many Great Houses his mother visited, the families kept their house-elves in a state of constant misery and deprivation. He had no evidence to support the supposition that not everyone was cruel to their house-elves, so rightly, he didn’t believe her for a second. John did. “That’s very kind of you, Mrs Hudson. Are you sure it’s not a bother? Only, we’re very fond of Carter and would not care for him to be unhappy.”

Mrs Hudson looked at John with great pride, “You were always the very best sort of person, John Watson.” She looked at Sherlock’s face and immediately guessed at his reluctance, “Your Carter will never be mistreated by anyone who works for this school. The Headmistress is quite strict about that sort of thing. My best advice is not to flaunt him in front of the other students, some of them were raised… _traditionally_ …and would not hesitate to do as they wished with him.”

John was puzzled. “Traditionally? What do you mean?”

Sherlock explained angrily, “Some people think that house-elves are for beating, or torturing, and all for fun. Some people starve them, or force them to do despicable things, things that are against their gentle giving natures. _Carter is mine!_ No one is allowed to do anything to him. He only obeys orders from me, or from John.” Sherlock realised that he was nearly shouting. His attitude softened a bit as Mrs Hudson continued to look at him with compassion, and he relented, “If he’s comfortable there, he may have his own room. I would have him feel at home as much as possible.” Sherlock had carved out a spot in the attic of the _Holmes Manor_ for Carter to call his own, hidden away from Mummy, and even Mycroft.

John was appalled. “He can bloody well stay _here_ if that’s how people think they can treat him!” Mrs Hudson now turned her compassionate smile to him, and his anger faded. He felt ashamed for losing his temper so easily. “If he wants his own room though, I’m sure he will be happy.”

Carter stepped forward cautiously, and Gary nodded encouragingly. The Hogwarts elf held out his hand and Carter took it. With a small popping sound, both elves disappeared, and John gasped in surprise. Sherlock was looking at Mrs Hudson with great seriousness. She smiled gently back and said in a reassuring voice, “He will be decently cared for, Master Holmes.

Sherlock winced and shook his head. “Please, just call me Sherlock.” He didn’t enjoy class warfare, and the way his peers treated their house-elves was only slightly worse than how they treated their servants, human or otherwise. Mrs Hudson seemed to be decent enough, and John liked her, which said a lot to the young patrician.

“Carter will wake you in time to get ready for breakfast. The showers and bathrooms are all at the end of each hallway. During regular hours you are required to wear your school robe, and we’ve provided each student with scarves, hats, and mittens, all in your House colours. You can eat your meals with one another if you like, or remain with your Housemates, it’s your choice. The tables are open.”

With those final words, Mrs Hudson bade them goodnight and left them to settle in. John and Sherlock looked at one another, and for the first time, felt awkward with each other. “Um. I need to…shower.” It had been a long day and John was accustomed to having a bath before bedtime.

“I see. Very well then.” Sherlock felt strange because he wanted to shower too. Would it be odd if he went with John? Deciding not to ask he merely went to his wardrobe, extracted his bathrobe and towels, and discovered a new pair of shower shoes waiting for him. There was a bag for toiletries, all smelling of the custom-made soaps his mother preferred, and sighed. She’d obviously sent some them along, probably ordering Carter to pack them away for him.

John felt relief when Sherlock came with him. He’d never showered in a dormitory before. His family bathroom was small but cosy, familiar, and comfortable. This bathroom was massive, filled with curtain covered cubicles, everything made from ornately carved stonework, the sinks alone masterpieces of insane masons. He’d never seen anything so strange, and almost diabolical feeling. The water didn’t come from shower-heads, instead, animal faces with awful grimaces had jaws that fell open to release hot and cold water, their paws situated to adjust the temperatures. After using the facilities, John chose a shower, and without comment, Sherlock took the one right next to his.

Later on, back in the room, John climbed into his strange new bed. The shower had made him wakeful rather than relaxed, and he missed his mum. She’d always come by to say goodnight, but tonight, she wouldn’t. The thought was more distressing than he’d anticipated, and he felt his throat grow tight. “There are at least thirteen different types of math,” reported Sherlock solemnly from his bed. The strange boy had drawn his curtains tightly shut.

“Are there?” John felt sad and lonely but responded to Sherlock’s strange comment politely. Since Sherlock had shut himself away, John did the same, tugging the heavy drapes closed. As soon as he lay down he prompted his friend to continue. “And?”

“I want to learn all of them.” Sherlock then went on to name several, digressing at he explained discoveries and definitions. John lost track quickly, his attention more on the evenness of Sherlock’s voice than the content. He didn’t understand anyway. Many of the terms Sherlock used were one’s John had never heard before, but it was distracting, and in a strange way, very comforting. He settled under the heavy blankets, his head supported by his fluffy pillow, and listened to Sherlock’s ramble. Eventually, his eyes drifted shut as sleep claimed him.

Sherlock was unfamiliar with being so close to anyone while he slept. Even in his nursery, he’d been left alone. Unless he’d fallen ill, no one ever stayed near him while he was asleep. He was nervous. Even though it was John, there was another body in the same space as he. He could hear John breathing and recognised the small hard hitches as precursors to tears. John would be missing his family. He had no idea about protocols when it came to weeping roommates. Desperately, Sherlock began to recite everything he knew about math, his favourite muggle subject next to chemistry. He listened sharply, his keen ears picking up the sound of John breathing with greater calmness, slowing. When John finally fell asleep Sherlock sighed with relief. He hadn’t intended to react as he had, but it had worked. He lay there in the dark and thought about everything that had happened. He was here, at Hogwarts at last. He’d gotten into Ravenclaw safely. John was his roommate. Life was relatively good.

He relaxed at long last. No one could take away what he currently had, and that was a good thing. He focused on John’s breathing again. It was steady and reassuring instead of invasive. Sherlock found it soothing rather than disconcerting as he had expected. John was the very best surprise, even if he was terribly sentimental. No one was entirely perfect. Sherlock heard Isaac’s jar pop open, and sure enough, a moment later, there was a cool but firm presence on his pillow. A long rubbery octopus arm gripped his shoulder, and with that strange comfort, Sherlock drifted off feeling safe and protected.

The next morning both boys felt nervously awkward with one another, racing off to the communal bathrooms as soon as they could, then getting ready for breakfast and class. Words were clipped and felt forced. John felt odd because he’d never shared a room with a boy before, only his sister. Even then mum and dad got them separate bedrooms as soon as they could manage. He was accustomed to organising himself by himself and having someone right there felt weird. Carter appeared, laying out clothing for both boys, and taking their damp towels and their bathrobes to be laundered. “He doesn’t need to look after me.” John felt strange about it.

Carter looked devastated, and Sherlock spoke sharply, “Carter is very good at what he does. He’s the best House-elf alive. No one can possibly look after your things better than he can.” John flushed, and then apologised by nudging the small pile of clothes from the previous day over to the small creature. “Thank you,” Carter said nothing. He simply gathered up John’s things and disappeared with a popping sound. “I hope he’s alright. I didn’t mean to offend.”

Sherlock softened instantly. “He’s alright. It's an adjustment for all of us. House-elves prefer to feel useful, they enjoy helping. It’s part of who they are.” Hesitating a second, Sherlock reached out and took John’s hand. Both boys sighed in relief when they reconnected, and all the awkwardness disappeared.

They let go of one another as they left, scarves draped around their necks. Breakfast was easy to find, and like the previous day, they found that getting to the Great Hall took much less time than leaving it. They seemed to arrive only a few minutes later and found it filled with the chatter of hundreds of students. After finding seats near Molly and Robin who were already sitting together, Sherlock and John ate heartily, both boys hungrily shovelling huge portions of food as they chattered happily as a group. John entertained everyone by explaining how waffles were meant to have syrup in every indent, a theory that Sherlock heartily approved of.

Molly pointed at a small girl at another table. She was slight and had a thin head of ginger hair. “That’s Sarah, my roommate. She’s a Gryffindor, just like John.” The girl noticed their attention and waved at all of them before turning back to her friends.

Robin looked stiff for a moment. “Anderson,” he said reluctantly. “Philip Anderson.” Everyone stopped eating and stared at the tall boy. Robin sounded grim. “He’s not very pleasant but he’s nicer than my grandmother, at least.”

Sherlock looked serious for a moment. “You can visit with John and me whenever you wish.” He offered sincerely. He’d been forced to keep company with Philip before, thanks to Mummy and her endless social networking. He was an appalling boor. Robin didn’t seem to deserve that. “If we have classes in common, perhaps we can study together as well.”

Robin looked relieved, and bashful at the same time. “Are you sure?”

“Sherlock _never_ says what he doesn’t mean,” answered John staunchly. “Come on by whenever you need to.” Molly sat there nervously. “You can come too, of course, Molly. It will be loads of fun.” Her smile lit up the room. Sticking together sounded good to everyone, so with smiles all around they finished their toast and tea.

As soon as their breakfast was done, all their plates magically disappeared. John was astonished but everyone who hadn't been raised a muggle didn’t think anything of it. Instead, all the students around them seemed to raise their wrists just as he felt his bracelet give a bit of a quiver. Words were flashing on it; _First Class_ it read. “Oh, I guess it’s time for school,” he said inanely.

Their small group stood, brushed the crumbs from their robes, and left. Everyone was watching their bracelets, noting the direction the flashing lights were bringing them in. They stayed together as they descended into the lower levels of the school, and as a small group, they stood in front of a door that was made from blackened wood. The handle was ancient, nearly as dark as the door, but clearly metal. “Here goes nothing,” said Molly bravely as she turned the knob. “Time to meet our professor.”

 

 


	7. Their New World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John are off to meet their Professors. There is so much they need to learn during their time there, but that's alright, because they plan on learning together.

_[ladyavatar on DeviantArt](http://theladyavatar.deviantart.com/gallery/?offset=24) _

 

It was almost a sense of disappointment when John recognised Professor Basarab. The dark cloaked man eyed the group with a gaze that let each of them know that they were being weighed and measured. “For those who do not recall, I am Professor _Mircea Danesti Basarab_. Normally my class would be saved for last, but after much discussion, the Headmistress has elected to grant _me_ the honour of impressing upon you lot the seriousness of the skills you will attempt to learn during your stay at _this_ school.”

The room darkened, and the Professor’s skin seemed to glow of its own accord, making him stand out in the darkness. John noticed the tight waistcoat, the pocket-watch, and even the wide cravat, all as props to his worst nightmares. With an almost inaudible gasp, he clutched at Sherlock’s hand to hang on tight.

The Professor, satisfied with the generally frightened reaction of the students, then caused an image to appear suspended in the air, a moving picture filled with tortures and horrors, wails of anguish and loss, and as one, the entire class screamed. “Dark power unchecked leads to madness and destruction. Here in this class, you will learn to master yourself, to hold in check all the devastating things you are able to do with magic. In this classroom, I will teach you how to keep yourself whole while taking the entire world apart.”

“What class is this?” Molly was the first student to muster a question. Everyone, Sherlock included, were scared stiff from the traumatic imagery still gruesomely playing out. “We’re _First Years_ , why do we need to see what you are showing us?”

Professor Basarab seemed very pleased. “You are indeed First Year students of magic, and yes, what I have shown you is entirely unpleasant but…Miss _Hooper_ …” Basarab’s pronunciation of her name caused it to hang on the air, lingering. “Those who delight in dark deeds will not care about your age or your skills. There are those who care only for the mayhem they can wreak, the amount of blood they can spill. Your inexperience will not stay their hand, not even for a moment.” He paused and looked intensely at all them one at a time. “I would save you that suffering. Under my instruction, you will learn to defend yourself against the most despicable villains you can imagine. You are vulnerable, in danger. To save you we must ignore the virtues of your innocent youth, and press forward. Many of you will be brought to tears by what I will show you, but those tears mean that you have a heart with which to feel. Your enemy does not. Welcome to _Defense Against the Dark Arts_.”

Sobered entirely, everyone took their seats. The remainder of the class was surprisingly normal, roll call was followed by a handing out of the curriculum, and instructions to read excerpts from the books on their reading list. After only thirty minutes they were dismissed. “Today is merely an introductory day,” Basarab explained. “Today your teachers will learn your faces, and you will learn theirs. Pay attention. _Seeing_ and _observing_ are not the same thing, be _this_ your first lesson. _Learn the difference_.”

Sherlock found their second class to be entirely to his liking. The Professor introduced himself as _Alkahest Dew._  “Welcome to Potions. As first-year students, you will spend a good deal of time learning what the proper tools and techniques required to produce a _stable_ potion are. There are many rules to follow, but if you pay attention you will be brewing fabulous magic in no time.” The man was cheery, round-faced, and wild of hair. All of his clothes were intricately patterned, but none of the articles had anything in common. His waistcoat had broad stripes, his long jacket had odd swirls, his trousers had concentric circles, and everything else seemed to be a sample of every sort of pattern one could imagine. It made Professor Dew difficult to look at until he drew on a surprisingly dull black cloak over it all.

Their third class took place in one of the several long rambling greenhouses that seemed to fill a huge field off to the sunnier side of the school. There was a tall broad man there, he boasted a thick dark beard and a disturbingly direct stare. “My name is Neville Longbottom, I was once a student at this very school, but after the retirement of the last Herbology Professor, I was asked to return to take up the post. Please call me Neville. I’m not really one for formalities.” He looked them all over with a hard eye. “I don’t tolerate bullying, nor will I treat students differently based on their familial connections. You are all equal, and only your skills as gardeners make any impact with me. Behave, and this class will be fun as well as filled with useful information. Misbehave and…just don’t misbehave.” Robin and Neville managed a quick discussion about Blooming Firebird Thistle, a food treat for phoenixes, and before their introductory class was over the young student had been equipped with a deep pot filled with soil, and a few seeds now tucked into a damp napkin for sprouting.

After that, they were delighted when a fiery haired and wolfish looking man wearing rough tanned furs came out of the woods. Everyone recognised him, he was famous. He had an axe in one hand, and a heavy sack in the other. “First Years, I am Bill Weasley. My family has been attending this school since it first began. My siblings and I went here, and my children will one day learn here. Until then, I’ll be teaching you all about _Magical Creatures_. My wife and I live here on the property in the Groundskeeper’s hut. You may have heard of Hagrid?” At the vigorous nodding of heads, the man continued, “Our Hagrid was invited to the schools in Australia to work on cataloguing all the dangerous magical creatures there. He was only too happy to go, and luckily for me, I was available to step in while he is gone. He’s left some pretty big changes to the old routines, you’ll all be expected to participate. My Fleur will be dropping into our class from time to time as my assistant, but other than those _few_ occasions, I expect helping hands from all of you, especially during the full moon when I am otherwise... occupied.” There was a nervous titter as he dismissed them to their next class, excited to have a chance to be near an _actual_ werewolf.

“Have you bitten anyone?” Sherlock called out the question and everyone fell silent, staring at their Professor in shock. “I’m just curious. You were forcibly changed into a werewolf, but have you ever turned anyone?”

Oddly enough, Bill was smiling. “No. I’ve not been that unlucky. Fleur is excellent at keeping me contained during the full moon, and I’ve never once had a chance to sink my fangs into someone. Want to be the first?” All the other students shrank back in horror but both Sherlock and John looked seriously interested. Professor Weasley laughed again. “I’m joking, young pup, I’ve made a vow never to turn anyone. If you want to be werewolves, you’ll have to find one of the wild ones to bite you, but I wouldn’t advise it. They don’t generally stop with just one bite.”

John loved the next class but Sherlock loathed it. To his horror, everyone got into trainers, and track suits before regrouping outside the school on a large flat piece of almost unbelievably green grass. Their professor was unpleasantly cheerful and fit, even if he was using a cane to limp about. John was a bit confused for a minute when several of their classmates clamoured for autographs. “I am Professor _Oliver Wood_ , yes, some of you know me from when I played Quidditch professionally, but those days are long behind me, thanks to my lovely weather-indicating knee.” The flat-muscled man tapped his left knee dramatically. Even Sherlock had heard of Oliver Wood, cursed and crippled ex-athlete, a survivor of continued altercations after the Voldemort Wars but at the cost of his leg. “Part of your studies will be physical fitness, a course long neglected by the school’s previous headmasters. Fortunately for you, the Ministry of Magic _and_ the Headmistress understand the need to get rid of excess energy. _This is a mandated course, no exceptions_. It will aid your concentration, trust me. We will meet every day right before lunch, there are showers in your change room, you are expected to exercise hard, play fair, and clean yourselves up before heading to your noon meal. Any exceptions will have to come from either your Heads of House, whom you will meet later today, the Headmistress _or_ the school nurse. Our first full class will be _me_ inspecting _you_ and dividing you into training groups. See you tomorrow at eleven sharp.”

John chattered with Professor Wood excitedly for a minute after he discovered Quidditch was very like rugby, a game he thoroughly enjoyed. Discovering that no exceptions to the “Third Year or Older” rule, were going to be made, John simply shrugged and became the newest fan for Hogwarts’ various teams. Sherlock was appalled.

After that Sherlock poked at his lunch desultorily, but John cheered him up by squeezing his hand and putting fruit pasties on his plate. “Don’t fuss Sherlock. We’re bound to be good at different things, just like you said. I’ll help you with athletics, and you’ll help me with academics, and it will all be brilliant. Promise.” Sherlock couldn’t be moody any longer, not with John staring at him with those excited innocent eyes, so full of love and devotion. They _were_ boyfriends after all, even if John seemed to mean best-friends. In his heart, Sherlock felt much more than that.

“Very well John.” Sherlock ate half his lunch just to please John, which it did. Soon enough their break was over, and the student body rushed to follow their bracelets to the next class. After they arrived, Sherlock whispered that their instructor, one Professor Flitwick, was part-goblin. Before he dismissed them until the next day, the tiny professor taught them how to at least hold their wands properly. “I know this already,” Sherlock hissed the words out under his breath.

“Well I don’t, shut it, Sherlock.” John wasn’t taking any lip from his best friend. Everything was new to John, and just because his boyfriend was a super-genius didn’t mean that John would somehow be able to soak up his knowledge just by holding his hand! He’d have to pay attention in class, and that meant learning the basics the hard way. “You’re going to have to help me so much Sherlock, I’m going to be an idiot at this!”

Sherlock was instantly offended because his friend actually sounded worried. His John wasn’t an idiot! John was smart and funny and capable; it wasn’t his fault he was raised a Muggle! “You’ll be brilliant at it. We’ll practice after class until you’re the best, well, after me. I’m going to be the best, at everything.”

Professor Flitwick dismissed them after shushing the chatter. “Yes, yes, your wand is a very large part of your education. Don’t assume you will do well with yours. A wand has its own personality, you’ll have to get to know it and that will take time. There is no rushing it.”

Sherlock swallowed hard and stared at his pocket where his heartless wand was stored. He walked ahead of John in the student queue to leave so his best friend couldn’t see the stricken look on his face. What sorts of things would he be able to do with a wand that had no heart? Terrible things? Monstrous things? What if he couldn’t stop himself from committing horrible crimes? What if his wand signified Sherlock’s true nature, what if he himself had no heart?

John took his hand the second they stepped out into the hallway despite Salamistra making gagging noises behind them. “You’ll be the bravest of all of us, I’m sure of it. Why, you can’t be afraid of anything, not with your wand.” Sherlock was immediately lifted out of his worries as John beamed his sunny smile right at him, his face a picture of trust and anticipation. All his dark thoughts disappeared. “You want to be the best at everything, and I know you will be.”

“ _We’ll_ be the best.” Sherlock squeezed John’s hand affectionately before letting go to look at his bracelet. “It says Muggle Studies.”

Sherlock was absolutely thrilled but John groaned miserably. “Muggle Studies? Why would I want to study them? I spent my whole life without magic, I should automatically be given the highest grade, and get sit out the year.”

This Professor was tall, ethereal, and bizarre, even by magical standards. Her long silvery hair was caught up in loops and braids, all of which were pinned or clipped by a colourful assortment of devices that included paperclips and twist-ties. Her jewellery seemed to be made of inexpensive plastics and was garish as well as plentiful. She wore a sober robe that fell to her ankles, but the front was open so everyone could see her mismatched socks that peeked out from ancient bell bottoms made from corduroy. Her top might have been sheer but was bedazzled so heavily that not a bit of the original fabric was visible. “Chaos theory is the study of nonlinear dynamics, in which seemingly random events are actually predictable from simple deterministic equations. With such equations it is possible to examine the similarities and differences that exist between the two cultural paradigms, once based in magic, the other not.” She paused and blinked for a moment, “Oh. I was supposed to just get your names and tell you what to read for next class. I don’t really like being told what to do, and I expect you don’t either. It’s important to understand the _relationships_ that exist between the two worlds, so if you feel like it, do your assigned readings. I won’t be angry if you don’t though. I am Luna Lovegood, welcome to Muggle Studies.”

Sherlock’s eyes were shining. “She’s amazing. I’ve read about chaos theory.” He turned his smile toward John.

“I understood every word she said and I have no idea what she’s talking about.” John was acutely aware of his general ignorance. He’d always done alright in school, but Hogwarts was such a different experience, he wasn’t sure if he’d make it through the first year. _Did they fail magical students?_ Worry began to fill him.

The final Professor was also a woman, but unlike Professor Lovegood, she was dressed in severely sober robes. Her hair was covered so not a strand could be seen. The fabrics she used were rich if very plain, and the scarf on her head made her forehead seem unusually high. She was quite attractive, and John had a difficult time imagining her age. She seemed young but her eyes were ancient. “I am _Georgiana Nadasdy_. You will refer to me at all times as _Professor_ Nadasdy.” She paused beside a dead and leafless tree in a pot and gave the entire class a serious looking over. “You are young.” John had the fleeting impression of hunger. “You live in a dangerous world. We are taking a lesson from the natural world.” She brushed a finger over a bare branch and everyone gasped when one of the twigs moved. It was an insect, cleverly evolved to look like it’s environment. Suddenly, there were two, and Professor Nadasdy was gone. A moment later she was back and setting the real insect back onto the branch.

“ _Transfiguration_ is a magic far beyond your nebulous skills. Despite this flaw in you, I shall attempt to guide you to success in the following semester.” John thought she was insulting as well as condescending, but all the other children, even Sherlock, seemed to excited to learn how to eventually cast these spells. “Until then…” She walked through the huddled mass of students and plucked a hair from each head. “So I will know you better.” Her words were soft but John felt uneasy, even after they left the classroom.

They walked away quickly. John kept looking over his shoulder. “That was actually kind of…disturbing.” Sherlock nodded. There was something about Professor Nadasdy that felt off, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. He didn’t have enough facts so he made a mental note to keep an eye out for anything suspicious or at least interesting about her.

Now that their introductions were over, everyone gathered in the dining hall, urged by their bracelets. Once they were there, everyone was asked to group together according to their Houses, and new introductions were made by Headmistress McGonagall herself. “Attention students! Your Heads of House are here today to get to know you, and for you to get to know them. For this meal, we ask that all students remain with their Housemates, and to listen to your Heads explain the traditions of the House into which you were sorted. Gryffindor, please gather at the table with Professor Neville Longbottom. Nearly all of you have Herbology class and have already met him. Assemble now. Ravenclaw, if you have not already met Professor Luna Lovegood, this is your opportunity to say hello. She doesn’t bite. Slytherin, all of you have met Professor Mircea Basarab. He is also in charge of public outings, some of which will be arranged for your enjoyment later in the season. Hufflepuff, Professor Pietro deStone is waiting anxiously to meet you. Be warned, he is a hugger. For those of you who do not enjoy extended hugs, please let him know as soon as possible, he won’t be offended. All students, please know that Professor deStone is also our Student Counsellor. If you are having problems adjusting, or just need someone to talk your worries through with, he is available at all hours. All you need to do is tell your bracelet that you need a word with him, and an appointment will be arranged at the earliest possible convenience. Privacy is guaranteed!”

Dismissed to their meal, Sherlock and John paused long enough to squeeze each other’s hand before parting reluctantly. Sherlock joined a group of sharp-eyed children who examined him the same way he examined them. “Call me Luna. Neville and I will never get used to being actual instructors here, though we’ve given it a good go for a number of years now.” Her attention seemed to drift, and instinctively he recognised what she was doing. _She was taking in information, observing everything around them indirectly! He knew she was because that’s what he did when he was looking for clues to whatever puzzle he was working on._ “There is much to learn in this place. Here at Hogwarts, I must demand that you let go of your preconceived notion that you know the world. You don’t. You really don’t. I’m going to help you with that. You are a new generation, the precious few who will begin to undo knots tied centuries ago. The progenitors of this school didn’t realise they were tying a noose around their own neck when they separated into Houses. We’re hoping that this new way will save magic. Ravenclaw has always sought greater wisdom, and your year is the first year that students at Hogwarts will be allowed to access the special collections of every single House, not just their own. Students with the capability will be allowed access to the Restricted Section of the Library, an honour that cannot be taken lightly. We are on the cusp of a new beginning.”

Sherlock was enthralled. She spoke directly to his soul. Everything about Professor Lovegood was marvellous. Her outfit was even more garish than it had been earlier. She was wearing a feather boa now, though the feathers were coloured to show her affiliation to Ravenclaw, Sherlock recognised a disguise when he saw one. Luna enjoyed what she was wearing, but her choices were clearly a distraction to anyone who turned their attention to her! _It was a foil, a trickery!_ Delighted, he decided he would learn from her, learn to see as deeply, to hide as well, to learn everything he could from everywhere he could, and use that knowledge to change the world for the better.

John was soon surrounded by chattering children who were exchanging snippets of stories they’d heard about something called _The Voldemort Wars_ , and all of them were directing questions toward Neville. John was excited to learn that the Head of Gryffindor was a legitimate war hero, by all accounts, a noble and gracious one as well. John decided then and there that he too would one day be a hero. He’d dedicate his life to saving people in whatever way he could. John promised himself to pay extra attention in Herbology, which clearly wasn’t the same thing as digging out weeds in Mrs Hudson’s strange garden. If Professor Longbottom thought it worthy enough to dedicate his life to, then obviously there were a lot of important things to learn there.

That night both boys stayed up later chattering about their plans and dreams, the fury of their dedication still burning hot after so many new ideas had been introduced to them. “We’re supposed to study with students from other Houses. We can ask Molly and Robin if they want to be our study partners, so we’re one from each. It’s perfect.”

John nodded vigorously at Sherlock’s suggestion. “We’ll ask at breakfast tomorrow. Our first class is Defense.” He looked a tiny bit abashed. “I’m pretty small. I need to learn all the defensive spells I can.”

Sherlock scowled at John. “I doubt that Professor Flitwick would agree that size equals fearsomeness. I do believe he was in the Mage War along with many of the other instructors here. You are taller than he is.” John still looked sceptical. “You are like a page.”

“What? How do you mean? What, I’m blank or something, like a blank page with nothing useful written on it?” That was a bit insulting.

“No, _a page_. You know. For a knight. His helper.” John wasn’t following so Sherlock explained further, “John Watson, you are a knight in the making. Right now you’re just learning, that’s what a page does. He helps his master, and by helping he slowly learns how to be a knight. When he’s all grown up he is eligible to become a proper knight, just like his master. Your master is this school, everyone in it is here to help you get ready for your shiny armour.”

John was touched and grinned up at his best friend. “Does that make you the damsel in distress?”

Sherlock snorted. “Believe me, John, if anyone is going to cause distress it is going to be me, and if I need to be disguised as a princess, you can trust that everyone who sees me will believe it to be true.” They were laughing now. They each had their goals and dreams for a future, plans that they made with one another. That night, closed away in their separate beds, each boy dreamed of their shared future, neither one of them for a moment doubting that they’d be anything but together, not ever.

From then on time seemed to move very fast. Their days were full, beginning early each morning before breakfast, and ending late in the evening right before bed. Their lessons were interesting, both boys devoted to learning as much as they could about all they could manage. Together they practised using their wands and training their familiars. They took their turn feeding the menagerie on the ground, and the eyrie in the upper towers. Isaac kept running off to play in the lake, and after several instances, Sherlock stopped being anxious about it. Isaac brought him back several fascinating items from the lake bottom, and the young wizard felt it was a good enough compromise for his familiar’s lack of presence.

They quickly became accustomed to living at the school. John adjusted to ghosts and objects that moved, and Sherlock got used to being around people all the time, as long as John was near. Carter seemed happy and stayed in the background of their lives where he was comfortable, but it seemed to the boys that the House-elf was having a good time. They checked on him frequently, using visits to Mrs Hudson for tea as an excuse to make sure he was doing well. Sherlock and John both wrote letters home once a week, but John was the only one who got responses back. Mummy never replied, but Sherlock wrote faithfully anyway. When Halloween came around mum sent John two costumes, one for himself, and one for Sherlock. “You remembered.”

John nodded as they examined their pirate outfits. “Look, we have matching eye-patches.” One of Sherlock’s earliest notes had been a complaint about not being able to be a real pirate. It had rung a note of recognition inside the small boy, and to make his best friend happy, John had arranged for his mother to find two identical outfits in their sizes. There was a gift from Harry as well, and when John opened it he found a sealed container filled with candy wrappers, all the treats long were gone, and there was a card written in mum’s hand, “From Harry, with love.”

Sherlock wasn’t impressed with John’s sister. _Mycroft was deplorable but he’d at least sent a large tray filled with an assortment of candies and confections for Sherlock to share with his classmates_. Pretending to be busy with his books, Sherlock took up his wand and muttered a small curse under his breath. Perhaps it was petty but for the next month, all of Harriet Watson’s socks would have holes in the toes. It wasn’t much but it made Sherlock feel better, even if John would never approve of him using magic against his family. No one should have to endure the aggravation John did. To make up for Harry’s prank Sherlock shared his expensive treats liberally with John and even Molly and Robin whom he sent Carter to invite over because John liked them a great deal. John threw the wrappers in their bin, and Sherlock went over, hugging his small friend tight, and kissing the top of his head. “We’ll be okay, John.”

John smiled up at him. “You’re my best friend. Of course we’ll be okay. This is nothing, you and I can handle anything together.”

“True enough John, true enough.” John’s faith and belief in him was continually astonishing. John cared so much for Sherlock, and blatantly too. Not a student in the school saw them as anything but who they were, John and Sherlock, together forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm horribly busy for the next two weeks. I'm doing my best to stay on track but we all know how easy it is to distract me, and apparently I have no control over myself. There won't be an update this coming weekend, and I apologize for this installment being late.
> 
> Rock on.


	8. Days of Innocence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Its the most perfect life either boy had ever enjoyed, and they enjoyed it even more because their best friend is right by their side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> darling_pet: Hi everyone! I'm breaking my author silence to give you all a big thank you for your kind and enthusiastic comments! So glad that you're enjoying our work. This is such a fun story to create alongside distantstarlight and oh my, the things we have planned for it! Much love xx

Halloween was long behind them, and they were walking the hallways, though not in their usual configuration. Sherlock was for once listening to someone else. He really liked Molly. She was useful and informative, and he paid attention to her complaints, “These stockings keep twisting about,” she moaned. They were on their way to Charms class, “At least they’re warm but I wish they didn’t…” Molly stopped speaking suddenly and flushed almost purple with embarrassment. “Never mind.”

They kept walking to class. Robin and John were just ahead of them, excitedly yammering on about the latest Quidditch match which neither Sherlock nor Molly were interested in, “What? Tell me, Molly. You know you can tell me anything.” Sherlock didn’t care that she was female. Gender didn’t matter to him. Molly was a good friend, loyal, reliable, and helpful. He’d grown quite accustomed to her company in the past few weeks.

She was still blushing furiously, “My underpants,” she whispered, her cheeks scarlet, “They keep riding up because of my stockings. I have to keep excusing myself to the loo to deal with it.”

“Oh.” Sherlock’s wardrobe was professionally fitted, of course, and he barely noticed the clothes he was wearing. Molly came from a decent family, but they couldn’t afford services from places like _Taicho’s_ , “Perhaps I can assist.” _He was good at this, thanks to Harry_. Sherlock pulled out his wand, and with careful concentration, he whispered a few choice words under his breath and waved it.

“Oh!” Molly’s face was still pink, but also relieved, “Whatever did you do? It’s all…straight again. Thank you!”

She seemed a bit embarrassed but grateful. Sherlock shrugged his shoulders, pretending indifference but inside he was chuckling, “They shouldn’t bother you anymore. It was a simple transference, we learned how in week three.”

“Oh. I’m…not very…well, I’m not catching onto wand-work very fast. Robin is helping me practice.” Molly was flustered now. Robin made a special point of hanging around with Molly, not exactly her boyfriend, at least, Sherlock didn’t think so, but he hadn’t missed the frowns on Robin’s face whenever Molly had to speak to other boys.

“You’re doing very well, certainly better than the rest of the class. From what I can tell our group is at the very top of the curve. Most of the rest of our year can’t even levitate objects yet, and you can float books and drinks back and forth quite easily.” It did make passing food across the dinner table easier and saved a lot of legwork in the library when they were studying.

“What exactly did you transfer?” Molly was smiling up at him, her steps now confident and comfortable. Sherlock didn’t miss Robin looking over his shoulder to smile down at her, even if Molly did.

Sherlock launched into a complex explanation regarding friction and surface tension. Molly’s expression became lost looking, so Sherlock sighed and simplified, “Whenever your undergarments are about to _misbehave_ the energy that would have gone into making them do so will automatically transfer to a third party. It won’t hurt them a bit, likely they’ll never even notice. You’ll not be troubled by it while we’re at school.”

He smiled comfortingly down at her and chuckled inside to himself all over again. Harriet Watson would be walking through her own school corridors right now, discretely trying to pick her underpants out of the rude places they were bunching into. He also managed to charm her other undergarments so they never sat exactly the way they needed to, the straps falling down her shoulders, or other parts shifting a bit too far to the left or right for her to be comfortable, or to look…even. He’d considered putting holes in her clothes but decided punishing John’s parents wasn’t right. They didn’t have much money and having to get Harriet new things all the time would be a reward she didn’t deserve, and an expense they could not afford. Instead, in the last two months, Sherlock had gently cursed Harry several times. She suffered from tangled hair that produced masses of split-ends, blemishes that were resistant to medication, persistent flatulence, halitosis, and out of spite, he made sure her school-bag mysteriously consumed all her pens and pencils while she was in class, so she never had anything to take notes with, all of them magically re-appearing whenever they weren’t needed. Her unloving gestures toward John had been unceasing, and Sherlock had vowed to continue his pranks for as long as she behaved this way toward his boyfriend. _No one treated John badly and got away with it. No one_. The next time Harry sent John pictures of ruined childhood toys or destroyed novels he had loved, Sherlock planned on upping his game to include skin rashes, and possibly even ingrown toenails. She had made John cry one night after callously letting him know that she’d stolen his baby blanket from his mother’s long-term storage trunk, and cut it to pieces. Mrs Watson had made that blanket by hand with John’s grandmother, it’s loss had hurt the whole family. Though Harry had been grounded for it, there was no repairing it, nor a sincere apology from her for being so awful. Sherlock had cursed her that very same day, causing her deodorant to fail spectacularly so that all the other girls in her class refuse to come close to her. It was barely satisfactory.

That night at dinner, despite his own personal pain, John held Sherlock’s hand as his boyfriend read a note from Mummy. It was the very first one he’d ever gotten, and initially, he’d been proud as well as excited. Now, with difficulty, he kept his tears at bay, “ _Sherlock. Mycroft and I are travelling to Bavaria for the holidays on business. We’ve arranged for you to remain at school for the duration. Regards. Mummy._ ” Sherlock felt empty inside. _He knew Mummy wasn’t the most sentimental person, but to go away with his oldest brother without him? And to Bavaria?_ Mummy had clearly forgotten or chose to ignore the fact that Sherlock had always wanted to go there. The legendary _Wolpertinger_ was there, and he’d long wished to find one to examine.

“Oh. Oh Sherlock, _no_ , this is not happening. You are not staying at school alone for Christmas! You’re coming to mine. I’ll tell mum right now.” John wasted no time putting a short letter together, and using his newly learned magic, had it deposited right into his parent’s mailbox. John then turned, and not caring that the entire school could see, hugged his boyfriend tight, and smiled right up at him, “There. Sorted. We’ll have an amazing time. You’ll love plum puddings, mum only makes them once a year. You can have a real Muggle experience. Maybe you’ll get extra-credit from Miss Luna if you write about it.”

Sherlock managed to keep his expression unaffected, “Thank you, John. You didn’t need to.” John was so very special. He supported Sherlock all the time, never making him feel awkward when things were decidedly so, and never allowing Sherlock to be unhappy if there was any way he could make his best friend feel better.

“Yes, I did. You’re my boyfriend. What kind of partner would I be if I left you alone during the holidays? I’d never be able to respect myself. You can share my room, I’ll sleep on the floor, you can have the bed.” John was so excited. He was thrilled to have Sherlock come home to meet his parents and even Harry. She couldn’t do anything to Sherlock, he was a boy, and Harry didn’t like boys. It would be a tight fit because his room was so small, but it was only for sleepy time. Mrs Hudson would be back for the holidays too, they could visit her home and show Sherlock her secret gardens. “We can order pizza.”

Sherlock sniffled a bit before blowing his nose. His eyes were a bit red but he was smiling, “I’ve always wanted to try a mass produced pizza.” The kitchen staff did a pretty good job of making pizza but John insisted it wasn’t quite right. He swore by a pizzeria that was well outside his neighbourhood but that his parents ordered from when they were able to spoil their family a bit.

“I know. We’ll try everything we can manage,” promised John dutifully. Sherlock had no idea about the true value of money and didn’t want his Muggle cards back. They couldn’t use them here anyway, the magic shield that protected Hogwarts was stronger and substantially more complex than the one that had shielded his family home. John also owned the only wallet between the two of them, so he kept them there, along with what Sherlock insisted on calling _mad money_. It was a strange assortment of folding cash in both Muggle and Magical denominations, and for going insane. John had to explain the actual meaning of _mad money_ , and for the first time, the facts annoyed the young wizard, who was already put out.

It amused John that Sherlock wasn’t able to shop online right now. He couldn’t get through. Despite how annoyed he was at the lack of internet access, John noticed that Sherlock was comforted knowing that not even he could break through the shield. They were safe, safe from the real dangers that they were only just learning about in class. It made John feel odd inside, that he of all people knew Sherlock’s actual feelings about things like he had been given a great gift. He adored his tall strange friend. Most of the children didn’t like Sherlock, it was instinctual for most of them as if they didn’t even realise they were blanking the boy constantly, and John didn’t know why.

Salamistra Donovan wasn’t the only one to call Sherlock a _freak_. John noticed that even the few other Muggle children wanted to steer clear of his best friend. It didn’t escape his attention that even the ones who _did_ notice him went so far as to deliberately avoid Sherlock, ignoring his presence when they could, but as far as John was concerned Sherlock was the most amazing, and the most fantastic person to ever exist. The other children looked at John strangely when they realised how close he was to Sherlock, and they both still received many askance glances when they held hands. That didn’t stop John from doing it though. He liked being connected to Sherlock. It felt right, and if it was the two of them against the world, then that felt right too. “We had so much fun at the Halloween party, imagine how fun Christmas is going to be! It might even snow. We can build snowmen!”

“I thought your family was against idol worship?” Sherlock sounded puzzled, “I’m positive it was in one of your history texts.”

John was laughing, Sherlock rarely made errors, but when he did, they were marvellous ones, “It wasn’t a history book, and building snowmen isn’t _idol worship!_ It’s just for fun.” Sherlock looked dubious, so when he shrugged his shoulders and agreed to give it a go, John felt a burst of pride. He knew that only for him would Sherlock Holmes attempt to do things like _play_ , just to amuse John. He was the most organised and disciplined person John knew, even compared to the other students at Hogwarts, even those in Ravenclaw. Sherlock was extremely studious and had their entire days planned down to the minute, maximising the amount of leisure time John could enjoy, though he himself kept to his books as much as possible. John knew that he himself was the more physical of the two of them, he needed to burn off his energies running about, but Sherlock needed to feed his mind information just as much. It was a fair compromise, and once again, both boys felt like they were contributing to the other’s happiness, and it made them feel good. Sherlock freed up time for John to run amok with people like Robin, and they stayed out of Sherlock’s hair when he was deep in his studies.

The Christmas farewell feast at Hogwarts was spectacular, even outdoing the Halloween feast where John ate so much he nearly had to be brought to see the school nurse. This time Sherlock did the dishing up, and let John have exactly one bite of everything, which was still a lot of bites. John recognised three of the desserts as Mrs Hudson’s particular creations, so Sherlock had portions of those for himself. Each child was given a gift. Sherlock received a magical moleskin notebook that only he could read, and John was given a small copper cauldron in which to mix his healing potions. Both boys were extremely pleased with their gifts, since they came from the school itself, confirming Sherlock’s notion that it was at the very least, semi-sentient. It understood things about them that they wouldn’t learn about themselves for years to come, the gifts would help them realise them. Molly was a bit perturbed when she received a set of medical tools that Sherlock was instantly covetous of. Robin was a bit surprised to receive a small bundle of hand-weapons. All of them were ancient looking, the wood blackened with age, the metals tarnished but still razor sharp. He and Molly both tucked their presents away in their wardrobes before leaving for home, “See you next year.” Molly’s eyes were a bit red despite her happy tone, “Happy Christmas.”

John stepped forward and thrust a large, and badly wrapped present toward her, just as Sherlock held a similar bundle toward Robin, “John and I made these for you both.” Inside were notebooks much like the ones that Sherlock and John still used, “Professor Flitwick helped link them all together, he was very impressed with the original spell, he even made note of it.”

John was smiling, “Now we can always stay in touch with one another when we’re separated for any reason. We can send notes all through the holidays.”

“Oh, John.” Molly was smiling and crying at the same time, “I thought I’d be all alone.”

Robin’s eyes were bright, but still tear free, “Thanks, old chaps. This is just…it’s top drawer. Thank you.”  Sherlock found he didn’t mind when Robin bent down to hug John, nor did he mind when the same affection was showed to him. Molly did her best to squeeze both of them in two before Robin escorted her away.

John looked a bit sad as he watched their friends go, but also a bit glad. “Okay Sherlock, time to go ourselves.” Sherlock had organised private transportation for the two of them instead of the regular train back to the city. They were meeting Mrs Hudson, and she was going to help them shop for Christmas before they went to John’s house. She had also agreed to keep Isaac, Monty, and Carter at her home.

The car was black, sleek, and to John’s utter delight, it hovered above the ground. “Mycroft,” sneered Sherlock. His brother had at least kept his unsightly face away.

“Your brother is a car now?” John asked in amazement.

“No, he weighs as much as one though. He now works for the _Ministry of Muffins_ , ensuring that there will always be a pastry shortage.” Sherlock was so angry with Mycroft right now, and sucking up by upgrading the car he’d ordered simply wasn’t going to cut it, “Magic is the only thing that keeps him aloft.”

John was struggling heroically not to laugh. He knew full well that Sherlock’s older brother worked for the _Ministry of Magic_ , “I didn’t want to meet him, you know that.” Sherlock was angry because Mycroft had arranged to have John diverted to an unused storage room. He’d tried to intimidate the small boy into spying on Sherlock directly. Things hadn’t turned out quite the way Mycroft had planned. Instead of being frightened, John was enraged. “The driver is going to be a spy of some kind.”

“Mummy would never permit it. No direct member of my family can be spied upon except by each other.” Mycroft had a network of eyes all through the school, but never directly on Sherlock, that was the rule. While Mycroft didn’t break the rule exactly, he did manage to watch Sherlock in a round-about manner, simply by the process of elimination. If Mycroft had his minions report constantly on where Sherlock currently was not, he could reliably guess as to where Sherlock was. Now that John knew they were being watched he was on guard every moment they were out of their room. Sherlock knew John didn’t even realise he did it, but the small boy looked hard at everyone who approached them, entered all the classrooms first, and generally done his best to interfere with Mycroft’s efforts in every way he could. Sherlock felt that warm sensation inside him begin to burn with greater heat. John was so very dear to him.

Mrs Hudson knew all sorts of games to play to wile away the time it took to travel. Sherlock slouched against John, holding his hand loosely as they all laughed and joked the entire journey through. They went to a regular shopping centre to look for presents for John’s family, and for each other. It pained Sherlock to leave John alone in the store but he needed Mrs Hudson’s assistance to get John the perfect gift in secret. John repaid his deed by doing the exact same thing, taking Mrs Hudson off with him while Sherlock browsed a bookstore, so he could get his best friend a secret present. It was both thrilling and frustrating because Sherlock wasn’t prepared for how lost and alone he felt while they were gone. He stayed inside the bookstore, which felt safe and comforting. At the last moment, he purchased a box of envelopes, two pads of high-quality paper, and a set of nice pens, for John’s parents. He couldn’t come empty handed after all. Harry’s present would be delivered in the fullness of time, and Sherlock could not wait.

Eventually, bags in hand, John and Mrs Hudson returned. Both boys shared secret smiles and kept their purchases to themselves even though Sherlock had gotten John’s present wrapped in the store. John was heavily laden because Sherlock had convinced him to use what he kept calling “their” debit card to purchase whatever he wanted for his family, no expense spared. The Holmes' did not exchange gifts. Even if Sherlock had been with his mother and brother, he would have sat through an extra formal dinner, been allowed half a glass of wine as they viewed the exquisitely decorated tree in the largest sitting room, and that would be it. If they had brought Sherlock abroad with them, even the tree and wine would have been missed, and only a formal dinner shared. John’s family had very different traditions, all of which he was greatly anticipating.

They dropped Mrs Hudson off first. She hugged and kissed both of them, and reminded them both to come by whenever they wanted. Sherlock was worried that their familiars would miss them but Monty flapped away when John tried to say goodbye, and Isaac nearly slammed Mrs Hudson’s door in their faces as they departed. Apparently, they too were looking forward to the holidays. Carter was already seated on Mrs Hudson’s sofa with a cup of hot chocolate in his hands, and he seemed shy as well as befuddled, but happy. John and Sherlock took their hints and left.

Mum burst into tears the second they pulled into the driveway, standing with open arms until John rushed into them. Sherlock hung back, more than a little nervous but Mrs Watson simply let John go, and squeezed him just as hard, “Hello boys! Welcome! Come in, we have food waiting.” Sherlock was treated to the unique experience of being shepherded into the tiny house with John’s mother’s arm over his shoulder, holding him tight to her as if she couldn’t bear to be parted from either one of them for a moment, “I’ve missed you, son,” Mrs. Watson kissed the top of John’s head, “Thanks for being there for him, Sherlock.” To his stunned amazement, Mrs Watson kissed his head too!

Mr Watson appeared. He was wearing a home-knitted jumper in the Watson colours and he was beaming ear to ear, “My boy!” John was crushed to his father for a long minute before he was set down. Sherlock was wide-eyed with amazement as John’s parents welcomed him enthusiastically, “We borrowed a futon from mum’s cousin so there’s a bit of an extra bed in your room John, pillow and all. Dinner is ready, come in, we’re so happy you’re home!”

John took Sherlock up to his room, and together they deposited all their bags and parcels onto John’s old bed. The walls were mostly bare, and the few shelves were empty. John looked around and heaved a great sigh, “Well, I hope it made her happy at the time.”

“Did you lose many things?” Sherlock hugged John to him and stroked his back comfortingly, “I’m sorry she’s so awful to you John.”

“She’s just jealous.” John excused his sister all over again and it made Sherlock _furious_. Without a word, the taller boy whirled out of the room and stalked across the hallway. Flinging a door open he stood there and openly examined Harry’s bedroom with a cold expression, “Don’t do what she does!” cried John with alarm.

“Please,” replied Sherlock caustically, “As if I’d resort to such measures!” Effortlessly he memorised everything on display. He couldn’t do magic here, but the second he was back in Hogwarts, Harriet Watson had some bad times coming her way. “Come along John, I smell roasted potatoes.”

Dinner was surprisingly enjoyable. Sherlock found John’s parents incredibly easy to talk to and was shocked to discover that they were genuinely interested in him. They already knew he loved puzzles, and mysteries, clearly paying attention to John’s many letters home, “John needs someone like you in his life, thanks for being his friend.” Mum was misty eyed as she served warm slices of apple pie for pudding.

Sherlock looked at her solemnly, “John and I have promised to be best friends forever, it is you who needs to be thanked, for helping make John. He is one of the very best people I know.” He was only speaking the truth but it earned him an extra helping of attention since both Mr and Mrs Watson got up to hug him at the table.

“Hug him again, his mum never does,” said John. Right away both parents squeezed Sherlock between them, “Thanks.”

“Not all people are tactile.” Dad didn’t sound judgemental, “We are though, so brace yourself, Sherlock.”

“I’m sure I’ll survive.” Sherlock didn’t mind at all. Being hugged by John’s parents wasn’t as nice as being hugged by John himself, but it wasn’t bad, almost on par with being hugged by Mrs Hudson. They stayed up late playing board games, all the Watsons enjoying Sherlock’s deductions concerning moves and strategies. John was just as warm with Sherlock as he was back in school, and made no effort to restrain his affection, even holding Sherlock’s hand once or twice in between turns. His parents looked at each other but said nothing against it.

Later on, mum got John to help put away left-overs, “So, you and Sherlock seem close.”

“He’s my boyfriend and my roommate.” John wasn’t going to lie to his mum. “We’ve already promised to be together forever, we made a deal.”

Mum smiled, and looked fondly amused, “You’re not even twelve yet, forever is a long time.”

“That’s why it’s so important to find your best friend right away, that way we have as much time together as possible. We’re really lucky. We’re not like you and dad, we don’t kiss or anything, but one day when we’re grown, we might. I mean, if I’m going to do that stuff, it should be with Sherlock, shouldn’t it?”

Mum’s eyes were twinkling now, “Yes love, it should be with your most special friend, and if that’s Sherlock, then that’s who it should be with.”

“You don’t mind that he’s a boy?” John was a bit worried. Harry only like girls, and if he only liked boys, well, _one_ boy, didn’t parents get upset with that kind of thing?

Mum shrugged, “It doesn’t matter if I like it or dislike it, it’s _your_ heart. If Sherlock was unkind to you or seemed to be a bad person, then I would mind, but even then I couldn’t make your heart feel anything but what it feels. You seem very well suited, and while many people might not be comfortable with boys liking other boys, that is their problem and not yours. I wouldn’t have liked it if someone said I couldn’t love your father because he wasn’t a girl, so why should I try to say you can’t see Sherlock just because he’s a boy. All I’m saying is that you are both dreadfully young and forever seems achievable until time really starts to go by. By the end of school, you could hate each other, or don’t want to be friends anymore, things like that happen, and I don’t want you to be upset if forever doesn’t happen.”

“It will though, Sherlock is perfect for me, you’ll see.” John was certain of it. Of this one thing, he’d never budged a jot. He and Sherlock, together forever, that was the deal.

Dad was teaching Sherlock magic tricks when they returned, and the young wizard was amazed and astonished, “That’s brilliant!” he shouted as dad made it look as if his thumb came off, “Do it again!” Sherlock was clapping and leaning in closer to watch while John’s father obligingly repeated the trick. “Very clever.” murmured Sherlock who was now lost in thought, “Genius, even.”

John dragged Sherlock away from his father and toward the family DVD collection, “Every single James Bond movie ever made.” He made the announcement proudly.

“Who?” Sherlock was mystified.

“No, that’s the Doctor. John is referring to the most famous spy of all, James Bond!” Dad was already pulling out the first case, “If you’ve not seen James Bond, well, you are in for a long night! Popcorn and hot chocs, yeah?”

Sherlock enjoyed the sensation of bemusement. He was full, and he felt safe as well as warm. John was sitting right next to him, and his parents seemed only to want to know how to make him feel even more at home. He blinked when he realised the dichotomy of that wish; if he’d been with Mummy, or even at the manor alone, _being at home_ meant using your best manners every moment, for looking your tidiest, and by never ever making a fuss, no matter how bored you were. Here there were board games, and magic tricks, and now, his first movie experience, “That sounds perfect.”

It was. Sherlock tried to pay attention to the movie, but he couldn’t. He was too distracted with how cosy it was on the sofa next to John, and how delightful John’s small home smelled. Without realising what he was doing, Sherlock drew in all the scents of John when he was happiest, that familiar and comfortable smell that meant _gladness,_ and allowed it to bury itself inside his mind, a seed of sensation that would eventually grow, and blossom. Content with the state of the world, Sherlock Holmes relaxed fully for the first time ever, snuggled against his best friend, surrounded by nothing but the sights and sounds of pure unadulterated love and affection.

They made it through one and a half movies before John fell asleep. Sherlock nudged him awake long enough to follow his parents upstairs to wash up for bed. John was mostly asleep as they brushed their teeth, and waited his turn to use the toilet and wash his hands. Sherlock was sure he was dozing while leaning against the wall. John was so drowsy he didn’t notice that Sherlock had tucked him into his old bed. Sherlock felt a kind of euphoria. This past evening had been entirely pleasant, addictively so. If his parents were any indication of what real love could be like, then Sherlock was very interested in pursuing such a feeling with John. Unlike his dearest friend, Sherlock was highly aware of his great youth. It was a fact of life that troubled him time and again but there was nothing to be done but allow himself to age normally. There were just some things that could not be rushed, nor, in some ways, was he in any hurry to advance. Firmly, Sherlock put future worries aside. They couldn’t be avoided but there was no sense wasting the present on fretfulness. Mindful of the rarity of the occasion, Sherlock stored every second of the evening carefully away in his mind palace, saving it all for times when he’d desperately need to recall that there were good things to be enjoyed.

Tucking himself into the slightly lumpy bedroll that filled every spare inch of floor space in John’s minuscule bedroom, Sherlock envied his best friend for the wealth of love he enjoyed. Sherlock’s family was as impoverished for love as John’s was for money. He decided then and there that they would meet in the middle somehow. Closing his eyes, Sherlock began to think of all the ways he and John could be together, how they could earn their keep, and live as they chose. He only had the vaguest ideas of what life’s requirements were, so in his innocence, young Sherlock dreamed of a world where John was a great and worthy knight, and Sherlock was a wise and powerful mage. Together they would go on perilous quests, and perform good deeds. Smiling, he sank into a sleep filled with the most delightful of dreams.

 

 

 


	9. The Watsons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock are spending the holidays with the rest of the Watsons, and won't a Muggle Christmas be special?

Harry was at breakfast. She’d returned with her friend, a girl named Clara, who politely smiled at everyone as she was introduced around. Harriet was small and sturdy like John, but definitely feminine. She was fairly attractive, her eyes the same shade of blue as her brother, and her hair the same sandy blond. Clara was slight and dark, her thick hair falling to her shoulders in a riot, while Harry’s was braided into neat queues. Sherlock silently ate his simple meal and listened to both girls as they chattered about the sleepover they’d enjoyed with several other mates from their class, where everyone had apparently had the best time ever. “Harry is so funny, Mrs Watson,” giggled Clara. “She brought these hilarious drawings, like, really badly made ones, and we turned them into paper beads for jewellery. See? I made this last night.”

Everyone peered in close to look at her hand-crafted necklace. John’s face went pale and he sat back, turning his face away from his sister, toast in hand, uneaten. Sherlock’s eyes narrowed and he took a closer look at the materials. It was obviously made from inexpensive but brightly coloured paper, the sort small children used when they were first learning their letters. Sherlock sat back and stared at Harry. “These were John’s drawings, probably the first ones he ever made for your parents. You broke into your mother’s memory trunk again.” Mrs Watson kept an old military lock box in her closet, and John had told Sherlock how it was filled with a messy collection of oddments that reminded his mum of so many different things.

Harry grinned rakishly and didn’t deny it. Clara however, gasped in horror. “Oh no! She didn’t, did you, Harry? No one would be so cruel to their baby brother? Why mum still has Uncle Rodney’s first drawings in a special book, we’re only allowed to look at them.”

Now Harriet looked uncomfortable. “John didn’t _say_ not to use his old stuff.”

“Well,” John spoke softly, still not looking at his sister. “That’s true enough, I didn’t tell her _not_ to.”

Clara stared at her friend and swallowed hard before asking. “You went into your mother’s things, you made _us_ help you do this, _and we didn’t know._ How do you think that makes me feel? You made me do something I would never willingly do. It’s sickening.” Clara took the necklace off and held it tightly in her fist. “I’m sorry John, I feel terrible about this.”

Mrs Watson’s mouth was pressed into a thin line. “Harriet, it’s time for a little _family_ talk.”

“Yes, mum.” Harry looked penitent while Clara was looking at her, but the second her friend looked away Harry’s face turned murderous, and she glared at John as if he had done her a great wrong. “I’d be happy to talk with my little brother _later_.”

Clara looked sharply at her friend when she heard the menace in Harry’s tone. “Harriet Watson, since you need to clear the air with your family, perhaps I’d better return home. I can stay over another day…maybe.” The young lady looked as if being in Harry’s presence was the last thing in the world she wanted.

Harry looked panicked now. “No! Don’t let _John_ ruin today! He’s _always_ doing that, he ruins _everything_.” Clara’s face went from being politely uncomfortable to being aghast at her friend’s attempt to skew the truth of the matter.

Sherlock couldn’t bear it. He began to speak just as Mr and Mrs Watson erupted angrily beside him. Both adults stopped trying to talk when Sherlock practically growled his words out, “John is the kindest, most forgiving, most _noble_ person I have ever met. All year long he’s had to endure _you_ deliberately baiting him. Thanks a lot for sending him _empty_ _candy wrappers_ at Halloween, and thanks so much for throwing half his clothes into the bins, and let’s not forget how you gave away his signed jersey from that sports team he used to like so much, and for ripping down all the movie posters he’d had in his room, and for chopping up his old action toys, and for cutting up the baby blanket your own mother had stored in her memory trunk.” Clara’s mouth was hanging open in shock, and Sherlock turned his attention to her, “John hasn’t complained a single time about these atrocities, not once. Instead, he is selflessly brought presents back for her! Presents! Tell me, Clara, would you give presents to someone who had done all these things to you?”

Harry’s fury was now unleashed. “You little _pouf!_ Don’t think that just because you’ve got money in your pockets that it makes you better than me. You are obviously a disgusting little…”

“HARRIET WATSON!” bellowed her father. “Stop speaking right this instant. Your language is entirely unacceptable. Your comments are _right out of order_ , young lady!” Harry’s mouth snapped shut as her father took a deep breath. “Harriet. Did you do all these things.” She nodded miserably and flinched when Clara made a distressed sound of negation. “Harriet Eleanor Watson, you will explain yourself this instant.”

“Clara is here!” she hissed. “Can’t we do this later?”

Mrs Watson looked at her daughter, her eyes hard. “You were well pleased to do these things behind our backs, perhaps you’d enjoy having people see what you can really be like.” Harry’s face reddening with mortification, and she shook her head anxiously. “Young Miss Clara doesn’t need to hear all our dirty laundry.” She turned to Harry’s guest. “Apologies Clara, we won’t be able to have a sleepover today they way you’d planned, I’ll call your mother for a ride home.”

While John’s mum made the call, Clara turned to look at her friend. Her tone was unhappy, but the disappointment in her face seemed to affect John’s sister even more. “Harry…I don’t know what to say. I thought I knew you.” She paused. “You…you are very _special_ to me Harry, but knowing you can be like…this…I’m sorry, but I can’t agree with that. John is your baby brother, you are supposed to protect and support him, even if you don’t like him. _Liking him_ isn’t the point, the point is that you should be able to rely on your family. How can I ever trust you knowing you’ve done these things, and not made up for it?”

“I would never do _this_ to you!” Harry’s eyes were filled with tears as her friend backed away. “He’s a rotten spoiled little have all, he _always_ gets everything his way! John…”

“Maybe that’s true, and maybe it isn’t,” replied the other young girl with quiet dignity. “You are the _older_ sister, you ought to be looking out for him, not…being…” Clara had obviously reached her limit. “You fix this, Harriet Watson, you fix this immediately or we cannot be friends anymore. I’m serious. I meant what I said last night about being best mates, but I also mean what I say right now. Goodbye Harry, don’t talk to me at school for a while. We’re done for now.”

Clara turned her back on Harry and stood by the door. There were tears on her face, but more on Harry’s. “Clara.” Harry sounded pitiful. “Clara, please.” Clara shook her head firmly and kept staring at the door, wordlessly waiting for her mother to arrive. Ten awkward minutes later there was a knock, and Clara nearly flew outside, escaping the sounds of Harry’s weeping. Now John’s sister turned around quickly and screamed at Sherlock, “You made me lose my best friend, you freak!”

Sherlock flinched and John instantly leapt to his feet, standing between his sister and Sherlock. “Don’t you ever call him names!” John sounded angry for the first time. “I can’t stop how you treat me, but don’t ever think I’m going to let you be awful to Sherlock! I won’t let you, Harry, I won’t!” John had never felt so angry. _This morning was absolutely awful when it should have been amazing. Harry being unpleasant to him was terrible, but there was no way in the world he was going to let her abuse his best friend!_ Sherlock hadn’t lied once, Harry _had_ done all those things and she knew it.

“Harriet Eleanor Watson, you get in the parlour right this second.” Harry’s face fell as her mother pointed sharply toward the other room. “John, you go with Sherlock, perhaps you boys can occupy yourselves by washing the dishes, we need to have some time to speak to your sister.”

Sherlock blinked and John nearly laughed despite the anger he was still feeling. He wanted to say all sorts of things to Harry right now but held all of it back. Instead, John took Sherlock by the hand and led him away while Harry stared. “I don’t know how to wash dishes, that’s what house…maids are for,” Sherlock nearly stumbled on the word _maid_ , since Carter was the one who actually looked after him. “I should probably just observe you to learn the technique, and I can help you during some other holiday.”

“Good try Sherlock, just for that you can do the drying and the putting away.” Sherlock and John listened with half an ear as Harry was scolded by both her parents at the same time. “It won’t take long to clean up, I’ve got it all worked out.”

John showed Sherlock how to wash dishes, and how to wash up the kitchen, doing more and more chores to keep themselves busy as the shouting continued. Finally, when everything was gleaming, only Harry’s sobbing remained, and mum came to get them. “Sorry boys, I didn’t actually mean to put you to work on your days off.” She looked sadly at her son. “I’m sorry John, I knew she’d been awful a few times, and we did speak to her about all of it, but I didn’t know about the rest. All your things! She told us she’d sent them on to you, I should have checked, she’s been off ever since you got the letter, but that’s on your father and me to repair.” Mum looked very serious. “It will take some time for her to make this all up to you, I don’t know how she’ll manage it, but her friend had the right of it, a family should always be able to rely on family. I knew Harry was envious of your opportunity John, but I did not think she was capable of such malicious behaviour and for so long! How unsupported you must have felt. I need you to know you can always rely on dad and me to help you when you need it, in any way we can.”

“I know I can rely on John,” Sherlock said with great seriousness. John felt a blush bloom on his cheeks. “Did you know that he’s going to be a hero when he grows up? You can tell just by looking at him.”

Mum was smiling that same soft smile she’d had on the night before. “It’s good that you see that Sherlock. If anyone was going to be a real life hero, it would be our John, that’s entirely correct.”

John wanted to protest except Sherlock took his hand up. “I learned, the very first day we met, that John was going to be the most important person in my life, ever. I know Harry was a bit not good, but John is very forgiving.  I regret to inform you that I am not, but for John’s sake, I will withhold my impulses. Having said that, I would like to ask if John could come stay at my home for part of the summer holidays next year? You can think about it if you need to, I just wanted to ask you in person.”

John was surprised with the request, which Sherlock hadn’t mentioned at all, and even more surprised when mum teared up but also had a huge smile. “I think we can miss him for part of the summer too, Sherlock, if your mother is alright with it.”

“I’ll have her send a letter or something, she’s not really good at speaking to other parents.” _Mummy would be appalled. It would be better to just say nothing directly to her._ Sherlock would inform Mycroft, which was practically the same as telling Mummy herself. “We’re a terribly uptight family.” Mum was giggling now, covering her mouth to try and stifle it.

John’s father took them out to the park for the afternoon, while his mother stayed home with Harry. Part of her punishment was helping mum prepare for the huge holiday meal that was being served the next day. While their mother cooked, Harry would be responsible for completing all the various chores required, like cleaning the house and doing the laundry. To make things even more miserable for the now thoroughly chastised girl, it had snowed, a rare occurrence. John and Sherlock were bundled up, gloved, and ready to go. Mr Watson filled his pockets with important supplies like chunks of coal and some carrots, and now Sherlock had caught John’s rather infectious excitement as they nearly ran through the now slushy streets to get to the nearest park.

Sherlock had never enjoyed being cold and wet more. He helped John roll big huge balls of snow, and with Mr Watson’s help, they assembled a three level snowman. There wasn’t quite enough snow for two, but they made do with one, giving it a face one either side of its lumpy head, and twiggy arms made from debris that had fallen from the ornamental trees planted everywhere. After that they ran around all over, throwing sloppy handfuls of quickly melting snow at one another while John’s father strolled behind them, smiling gently in proud amusement.

Later that night, well after a hearty dinner of piping hot stew and still steaming biscuits were enjoyed, both boys, now showered and wearing pyjamas, were allowed to sit wrapped in warm blankets, sipping more hot chocolate, to work their way through the James Bond movies one at a time. This time Sherlock fell asleep first and woke in John’s bed sometime in the darkest part of the night. He felt frightened and alone, and with only a small amount of hesitation, he squirmed down to cuddle up to John’s back, breathing in his comforting scent. It was easy to then fall right back asleep, warm and safe next to his best friend.

The next morning was Christmas Eve, and John shook him awake, “Pancakes, Sherlock!” Harry was on her best behaviour, and John was happy to be able to enjoy a family meal without her constant needles and insults. He laughed at Sherlock’s expression when they unpacked their Christmas tree, an artificial monstrosity that was silver from top to bottom, and had built in twinkling lights. “Dad’s mum got it for us before she passed, as a joke, or so she said. We’ve used it ever since.” Sherlock had never decorated a tree before and had certainly never hung up hand-made ornaments that had been made over the years. Once they were finished, mum sat them down with a clutter of craft supplies, all the children spending some quiet time alone making more ornaments while the parents got on with cooking their evening feast. After that, the boys took some time to wrap up the presents they were giving to the family, putting everything into a big cloth sack to obscure it.

Dinner brought all their neighbours and friends to the Watson home. Every small room in the place seemed to be packed with happy people who ate the platters of treats the Watsons had made, or that they had brought themselves. The wine was poured, and carols were sung. It was late by the time the merriment was at an end, and once more, Sherlock was fully asleep before John’s father tucked him up under his covers.

That night John slept on the bed with Sherlock, unreservedly hugging his best friend while they slumbered. Sherlock didn’t know that he squirmed around until they were face to face, forehead to forehead, arms holding the other close. He didn’t feel the smile on his face or hear himself tell John how much he loved him. John didn’t know he too was smiling, and that his whole body relaxed the second Sherlock was close to him. Innocently, they slept till the early dawn hours. At the stroke of five, John’s eyes popped open and he shook his friend awake. “Sherlock. It’s time for presents!”

Both boys nearly fell over themselves to get downstairs, robes and slippers forgotten. Both of them thundered back up the stairs to shout John’s laughing parents awake, and to remember to call Harry before running back down to gaze under the tree. There was a brightly wrapped mountain of presents waiting. “Oh!” exclaimed John’s mother in surprise. “I had no idea!”

Dad seemed equally taken by surprise. “Look at all the packages! I wonder where this all came from?” Dad was wearing his traditional holiday bathrobe, a bright red but well-used article that he claimed gave him the right to officiate over the dispensing of presents to their appropriate recipients. John recognised the parcel from Sherlock, and one from his parents, but also somehow received one from Molly, another from Robin, a gift from Mrs Hudson, and an expertly wrapped sack of fancy chocolates from someone who identified themselves only as _CH_. John felt a great well of sentimentality rise up when he realised that Mrs Hudson had used her magic to transport everything here and that Carter had given him a gift even though he had no reason to. John was glad that he and Sherlock had contrived to provide the house-elf with a round-about present which would be waiting for him at Hogwarts. He would be the proud manager of a new ironing board and steam iron, as well as an ethically made feather duster. Carter was happiest when he was doing the laundry, and despite Sherlock’s many orders not to, he wouldn’t stop dusting.

Sherlock was surprised to find a long flat box with his name on it, the letters _MH_ inscribed in gold on a little card tucked beneath a simple bow. When he opened it Sherlock was stunned to find a violin inside, it’s hard case marred with age, but the instrument softly gleaming. “Grandmother’s instrument!” he gasped. “It was given to my brother.”

Sherlock swallowed hard because this gift had enormous magnitude. He didn’t get on with his interfering brother, but he was touched all the same. Grandmother had unearthly skill with her violin and had been famed far and wide for her musical talents. It gave her a respectability she might not have otherwise had, and when she had passed, Mummy had presented it to Sherlock’s brother almost coldly. “Do with it what you will,” she’d said. “Never play it in my home.” Mummy didn’t speak of her mother, or to any of her blood relations, not ever, but Sherlock had loved his Grand’Mère. He was very happy to have her instrument, but at the same time, a lifetime of silent disapproval was prohibiting his ability to express his true feelings over the surprise gift. Mycroft was being either extremely cruel, or terribly kind, and Sherlock didn’t know which answer would trouble him more.

“I can’t wait till you learn to play, it’s going to be beautiful,” John piped up supportively. He saw how conflicted Sherlock was, and closed the case for him. Like a spell had been broken, Sherlock looked into John’s eyes with relief. “Here, I got you this.”

Shyly John presented Sherlock with a long wrapped tube. Curiously, Sherlock tore the wrappings away and unrolled a long piece of paper. “John! It’s the periodic table!” Sherlock was absolutely astonished. He was so moved that he found it nearly impossible to speak. This was a true gift, with nothing attached to it except pure happiness and love. John Watson had found him something that spoke to the very core of Sherlock’s life-goals. “It has the atomic weights on it and everything.” Sherlock went over the entire chart, almost squeaking with excitement when he recognised names.

John felt well pleased. At first, he worried about the simplicity of the gift, it was just a poster after all. There were dozens of them to choose from. Still, he’d gotten the laminated version so it was sturdier, and went with his instincts. He’d been spot on, and Sherlock looked happier than he ever had so far. “I’m glad you like it.” He really was. It was very important to John to make Sherlock feel good, to understand that at least one person in the world paid attention to all his varied interests, and knew Sherlock inside and out. That was John’s job. He was Sherlock’s boyfriend as well as best friend, and John understood that they were very different things, that’s why it was extra-important to work at it. He had a lot of responsibilities, and he’d never be found wanting.

When Sherlock grandly presented John’s gift to him, it made the small boy grin. Sherlock was so formal, almost ceremonial. “This is huge Sherlock, whatever did you get?”

“Open it and see John.” Sherlock was squirming around eagerly. “Hurry up, John.”

John tore off the rich wrapping paper and opened the blank cardboard box underneath it all. Inside was a small pack coloured in green mottling, shoulder straps fitted with loops, and small fabric bags attached. John pulled it out, his brows knitting. “Sherlock is this…”

“It’s a _field medic kit,_ and a _potions lab_ combined. For Herbology and Potions classes.” John excelled at both, often he and Sherlock were tied for top marks. John had strong healing tendencies, he would be a physic of some sort for certain, but he was also terribly brave. John was truly a knight in the making, as Sherlock often reminded him of. “When you are grown, and away doing deeds and completing quests, you will need to keep your potions and sundries close at hand. This will help.” It would also be useful around Hogwarts. They spent a huge amount of time exploring the castle and venturing out to the grounds. Sherlock always kept in mind his desire to be as self-reliant as possible, and this gift would work to both their advantages.

“It’s brilliant Sherlock.” John was so moved. Sherlock’s faith in him never wavered, not for a heartbeat. “I’ll use it always.” To demonstrate how _serious_ he was, John fetched his precious notebook, now containing several messages from both Molly and Robin about their holidays, and tucked it into an appropriate pocket along with a pen. He needed to be ready for anything, Sherlock would grow up to be a great wizard, and John fully expected to be by his side, battling foes, and helping where he could. Just because he was going to be a hero didn’t mean he had to give up being nice to people! Look at Professor Longbottom, he was a healer and a warrior, he wasn’t exactly a doctor but the entire school knew that all the cures available in the hospital wing were made by him. John wanted to be just like him, and Sherlock’s gift would make it so much easier. Nodding his head sharply once he inspected his new kit he said, “There. Now I’m set for anything.”

Mum and dad were impressed with the gifts they found waiting for them. While Sherlock would have happily paid for any indulgence John could imagine, the small boy understood that straining credulity wasn’t going to help him maintain his magical secret. Instead, he had searched for and found a decadent after-bath lotion made in mum’s favourite floral scents. She clutched it to her chest and thanked John profusely for the small luxury. For dad, he’d found a straight-razor kit that came in a small hard case, soap and brush included. It reminded John of his late grandfather's set, and when his father thanked him with a voice gruff with sentiment, John knew he’d chosen correctly. Harry looked at her present nervously but opened it under the watchful gaze of her parents. Inside was a personal diary. There was a thick leather band that caged its top and bottom, and a key suspended from a charm bracelet that also held two beads with the letters “H” and “W” dangling down. She stared at it for a very long time before speaking in a humble voice, “It’s lovely John, it’s perfect.”

John looked at his sister and felt a strange mix of emotions. He wasn’t very happy with how she’d been these last few months, but she was his only sister. John thought of Mycroft, and how it seemed that to John that Sherlock’s sibling was doing his best to try and be nice to Sherlock, except neither of them had any idea how to go about it, so he did it in the worst way possible. He watched over Sherlock a little too closely but remembered to do something significant for Sherlock whenever it was required. Mycroft was unstinting with gifts to commemorate Sherlock’s successes, even if it made Sherlock go spare because he’d know that Mycroft was supervising each thing that he did. The constant battle between the brothers seemed awful, but it taught John that caring came in a lot of different ways. Harry was mad at him, but that shouldn’t prevent John from trying to be a good brother, no matter what. It wouldn’t make him feel better to be awful to her in return, so he just tried to move along. “I’m glad you like it.”

John wasn’t surprised to find no present at all from Harry waiting for him, and its lack made his sister ruddy with humiliation. No one said a word, and she opened her other gifts silently, thanking everyone for their thoughtfulness. She’d at least gotten her mother a nice scarf, and her father a warm pair of driving gloves, so John continued to hold his tongue. Gifts from his other friends more than made up for it. Molly got John a pair of plant shears, which confused John’s family, but that he adored. He’d use them for taking plant cuttings. She gifted Sherlock with a magnifying glass, which he immediately cherished and began to use to examine everything within reach. John got a long elegant quill, complete with inkpot, and he loved it. Writing with a quill was more challenging that using a pen, and John enjoyed the precision it took. Robin had given Sherlock a Muggle chemistry textbook which again puzzled the Watsons, but made Sherlock nearly as excited as his poster from John. He ignored everything from then on to puzzle out chemical formulas. Mrs Hudson made an enormous ring cake that was to be shared with everyone and to top it all off, Mum and dad gave John and Sherlock a joint gift. “Mum!” It was a board game. “I love _Cluedo_!”

“We just thought you shouldn’t study every minute, John, you need to have a bit of fun. It sounds like you are in class most of the time.” Mum looked so proud. “You can play after dinner.”

The rest of the day was an experience, and it was unlike anything Sherlock had ever known. The Watson family was so different than his own, he almost did not know what to make of them. They had all sorts of _Christmas Day_ traditions. Both parents had long since put together the huge meal that was simmering away on their large stove. They pointed out the empty dual oven, one luxury they had indulged in, and let the children make and frost cookies, baking whole sheets of amusing shapes made of sweet crumbly dough. Sherlock had never eaten a cookie straight off the pan before because Mrs Watson was indulgent in a way Mummy never was. Mummy had probably never willing stepped foot inside a kitchen unless it was to order something. Sherlock doubted she’d even know the first thing about making toast, but here were John’s parents, chopping and slicing, moving around in perfect synchronicity as they stirred and mixed various bubbling pots of things. They chatted with all the children, serving out drinks both hot and cold, providing small platters of cold cuts and cheeses to go with an assortment of crackers instead of a full meal.

Sherlock understood why late after lunch might normally have been served, everyone sat down around the Watson’s long farm table and admired the extravagant meal laid out for them. They were dressed in their nicest clothes, the parents spelling each other off to get cleaned up, but Sherlock had never dressed so casually for a formal dinner. At home, he would have been wearing his crispest shirt, and his sharpest suit. Here he wore a jumper over his tie-free shirt and dark trousers. They were even wearing their slippers instead of highly polished shoes. They pulled crackers that only made a loud popping sound, and everyone wore the paper hats they found inside. It was dizzyingly different and so welcoming he didn’t know how to react to all the variances.

Sherlock was impressed because he’d witnessed the creation of nearly everything in front of him. It hadn’t just magically appeared. He’d watched Mr Watson peel and cook a whole pile of innocent looking potatoes, and now sitting in a deep heavy ceramic bowl, was the creamiest, buttery-est, smoothest looking mashed potatoes he’d ever come across. Everything else was similarly splendid. All of it was simple but so elegant. Sherlock was sure he’d never tasted stuffing so savoury, nor meats roasted until everything was so tender he barely used his knife to cut. For the first time ever Sherlock went bite for bite with John’s normally enormous appetite. Even after he finished two helpings of everything, Sherlock managed to find the will to consume pudding. It was amazing, and all of it done without a scrap of magic. “That was magnificent.”

“You caught us on a good day,” dad joked. “Normally it's burned toast and cold beans, right sweetheart?” Sherlock doubted it entirely but laughed along with everyone else. That evening set the tone for the rest of the vacation, and the happy days passed in a blur after that moment. They spent every carefree moment just having fun. One afternoon, tea at Mrs Hudson’s was arranged before she left to see her sister, taking the familiars and Carter along with her.

Harry’s holiday was filled with chores and other tasks that kept her from everyday fun activities, but the Watsons went as a group to major entertainments. Fireworks at the turn of the year were celebrated with shouts and cheers, followed by mugs of hot apple cider. Sherlock enjoyed time passing the way he never had before, every day was perfect and filled with laughter and a sense of enduring happiness he’d never experienced before. When it was time to return to school, he was hugged as hard as John was, both parents crying a little as they climbed into the same dark car that had brought them home. He felt nearly teary himself as he left the simple comforts of the Watson home, and travelled back hand-in-hand with John to Hogwarts. John was silent as he left his family behind once again, both boys took comfort in the other’s presence. As long as they had each other, things would work out.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> clever graphic by darling_pet


	10. Paths and Purposes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys are back at school to face classes as well the life they lead in-between.

The first thing they did when they got back to Hogwarts was to have Robin and Molly to come by. They shared the sweet treats they’d gotten over the course of their Muggle holiday, and Sherlock gingerly played some scales on his grandmother’s violin. John assured their friends that Sherlock would practice every single day, and he’d be amazing at playing the instrument in no time. Sherlock blushed but nodded. He still felt conflicted about the violin, but there was no real reason to resist his desire to gain skills with it. Robin and John were discussing bird-cages since _Harold_ , the now named phoenix, apparently didn’t care for his current perch. “I can’t believe you named your familiar after a carol.” John was shaking his head.

Robin’s smile was unabashed. “But he’s a real angel, you should hear him sing!” At the cue, Harold opened his beak and crooned out a few notes of an operetta. Everyone applauded and Robin grinned again. “Grandmama had a small party, she had a singer come in for the evening to entertain her guests. Harold heard her.”

Happy beginning or not, the next semester challenged all the children. Though they were _First Years_ , no longer were they considered new students. Leniencies that had been initially granted were withdrawn, and each child became aware that their only function was to _learn_. It was their task to try and understand as much as possible and to preserve what was on the verge of disappearing forever. Magic was fading and there didn’t seem to be anything anyone could do about it. The magical realm didn’t realise it yet, but with the full assistance of the Ministry of Magic, magical schools everywhere had quietly mobilised, doing what they were meant to do, _survive_ and _fight back_.

It made things tense. All the children were aware of the extra adults that roamed the grounds and borders of the schools. In days past, Aurors were rare, but after the harsh lessons of the Mage Wars, parents prudently demanded that their vulnerable progeny were protected by every possible measure. Witches and wizards all around the planet worked on the _final problem_ , trying to find out why magic seemed to be leaking away, becoming weaker. Fearing a loss of information that would cripple them as a society, it was decided that learning would be thrown wide open, that they would allow _wizards-in-training_ to glut themselves on whatever they could feast their minds on, no matter where they were. Rigid rules and centuries-old bureaucracy would not help them now. Desperate times called for desperate measures, and while the Muggle world ticked on without a clue, the magical realm resisted annihilation.

Sherlock was in his glory. His talent with critical thinking earned him a free pass to the _Restricted Section_ of Hogwarts Library, a once rigidly guarded section. The next bonus was the unexpected return of an old alumnus which opened an _extra-credit_ class. Sherlock had no interest in the subject matter _per se_  but he was intensely interested in the extra grade. If he managed to take one extra class each year, he’d finish with the highest honours a Holmes had ever attained. Mycroft would be green with envy, literally green if Sherlock had a chance to cast the right spell before then. “John, we’re taking _Divination_.”

John had protested at first but had given in after a moment or two of weak objections. Writing a note to their friends, John informed them that Sherlock had signed all of them up for Divination class with one Professor Trelawney, the very same woman who had prophesied the short-lived reign of _He-Who-Was-Eventually-Named_. Her return was a reluctant one, and more of a decision based on the fact that there was nowhere else in the world she would be safe, and that her journeys had irrevocably proven that she was complete pants at looking after herself. By the time Professor Trelawney staggered back through the front gates of Hogwarts, she was thin, bedraggled, wilder of hair than normal, raving slightly, and possessing a single carpet bag of clothing and nothing more. A hot cup of tea and an overnight stay in the hospital wing set her more or less right, and kindly, the school offered the flustered prophet her old rooms back again. Gratefully, she had accepted.

For Sherlock’s part, the young patrician very much enjoyed the labours his studies required, there was one class he would miss entirely if given the option, even if it meant missing his goal to beat Mycroft’s school record. Professor Wood was sincere, amiable, supportive, and self-assured. Sherlock loathed him. Every single day before lunch the entire class would go to a communal changing area made of dozens of well-curtained cubicles. They changed from their voluminous school robes, clothes and all, and clambered into exercise clothing. John called them _trackies_. Sherlock hated the clothes nearly as much as he hated the shoes. He hated the shoes nearly as much as he hated running. He hated running nearly as much as he hated doing all the many exercises Professor Wood required of them, every class bringing a new stretch, a new weird step, or the jumping. Oh gods, the jumping. Sherlock hated it. It was undignified. It made him red-faced and sweaty. No one in his entire family leapt about until they were nearly sick to their stomach! If there had been any way out of it, he would have taken it, but unless it was health related, there were no excuses. Sherlock despised his relentless good health, contracting not a hint of fever nor even a sniffle, not once.

John loved it. John zoomed around giving it his all every minute of class. He _perspired_ and his face flushed, but it looked healthy and enviable. John was a natural at athletics. For his size and length of his legs, John Watson was uncommonly fast as well as strong. Only Robin came close to his abilities, and only the lad’s greater height and reach occasioned him the rare win against John. Sherlock was at the bottom of the class, worse even than Molly, who was hopelessly clumsy and was capable of falling over on a flat surface with nothing in her way. John was _never_ shagged out by the end, he would be breathing as hard, or harder than anyone, but he just shook it off. By the time they were showered and changed back into normal clothes, John would be entirely composed and peckish.

Sherlock felt like someone had wrung him out like a cloth and left him on the floor to dry, twisted and brittle. His showers were only accomplished with shaky hands and wobbly legs, and the only reason he didn’t just stay under the hot water was because John wouldn’t eat without him. It took weeks before he was fit enough to make it through the warm-up at the beginning without wanting to be ill. He had no muscle definition of any degree, and each thing he was made to do absolutely killed him. John merely grew more robust and apple-cheeked. It was entirely unfair. Sherlock was pale and sickly compared to John who shone like the sun and radiated endless goodwill.

John really was wonderful though. He knew exactly how much Sherlock hated the Ministry mandated course. After they met at their regular table for lunch, John would spoil Sherlock by serving him up bits of food, and making sure that Sherlock got lots of soup, which he loved, and that at least half his meal was some kind of sweet. After the holidays it was difficult for Sherlock again. His birthday came and went before he was finally able to run with comparative ease. For a present John had gotten him a booklet on fitness. It came with little charts and graphs on caloric intake and energy consumption. Sherlock was riveted. Once he’d made an _experiment_ out of health class it became astonishingly easy for him to participate. Now he used his lunch break to also record his heart-rate, his food intake, and begin measuring all sorts of variables. It became _science_ , not _exercise_ , and he was perfectly at ease with science.

The day Professor Wood brought them to the fields to learn to fly was the most exciting day ever. Well, exciting until they actually got their brooms in the air. All of them were ancient. Sturdy and plain, not a single broom went faster than a sedate walk. It was almost embarrassing to putt around the skies, climbing slowly in careful spirals until they were a decent distance from the grasses. Magically heard, orders spoken from the ground helped them learn to operate their antique brooms, turning left and right, going higher or descending to specified distances.

Once January was over, all the students were well acquainted with the basic rules and possessed the most rudimentary of control over their less-than-challenging rides. It was just poor luck that on test day, of all the old brooms that were randomly handed out to the class, Sherlock ended up with the one with spell issues. He wasn’t very far off the ground when it began, so when he was floating barely ten feet from the lawns that his broom began to act oddly. It jerked a bit, then shot forward a few inches. It made embarrassing noises, and each time it did so, a bristle fell off. Sherlock tried to angle it downward to land, but the broom just made even louder embarrassing noises, ejecting bristles at a steady pace, as it listed to the side. The safety spell that kept Sherlock on it remained engaged so the boy was flying sideways, his face red with anger and embarrassment. He eventually drifted lower, the broom shooting ahead just faster than the lame Professor could walk to catch it. When it did stop, Sherlock was laying on the grass, and struggling to kick the offending broom away. Professor Wood let him use another broom for the test, and Sherlock passed with a perfect score. John was a good friend and said nothing about the malfunction.

Once the entire class was done, the Professor made an announcement. “For those students with brooms of their own, private lessons are being provided by volunteer staff and Seventh Year students with appropriate credentials. It’s in your best interests to gain mastery of broom flight sooner rather than later.” Wood looked at all of them sternly. “We’ve learned the hard way that even the very young are often cruelly challenged. It may seem overwhelming, but believe me, _trust_ _me,_ this is all with your best interests in mind.”

His worried sincerity resonated deeply with the entire class, and once again everyone experienced that distance sense of oncoming danger, everyone that is except one student. “What if we don’t have our brooms yet?” Sherlock eyed their teacher sharply. “If I’d known, John and I would have our brooms here already.”

Professor Wood sighed. “There are a lot of changes in place this year, and things aren’t running as smoothly as they have in the past, but delays in notifications about broom allowances are the least of your worries. You can be granted a supervised pass to go get your brooms, pending review by the Headmistress. If you are merely returning to your family home, then an older student can help you get there. If you need to make a purchase, then Professor Basarab has a list with available times on it. You can organise an outing with him, or one of his trusted assistants to help you get what you need. Class dismissed.”

Still stung with embarrassment regarding the school broom, Sherlock made everyone run with him all the way to Professor Basarab’s office. He knocked sharply, and as soon as he was granted access he spoke, “John and I need to go buy brooms at your earliest convenience. If you don’t have time, Michelangelo Stamford is an acceptable alternative. He escorted John to school.”

The professor regarded the small panting group of students. Robin and Molly hung back. “Your friends are not getting brooms as well?”

Sherlock looked over his shoulder. “I didn’t ask.”

Molly blushed crimson. “Oh, my parents…that is…well, after the holiday and Lucy, also…” She trailed off as her familiar slithered out from her hair to glare at the professor. “Berrytta doesn’t really like flying. I’m better off with the school brooms.”

“Nonsense,” said Sherlock dismissively. “John, Molly, and I all require an escort for broom purchases.”

“Your other friend?” Basarab looked disapprovingly at Robin who was standing defensively next to Molly who was, in turn, staring at Sherlock in shock. “Does his family wish him to provide him with a broom or not?”

Now Robin was the one blushing. “Oh, er, well, Grandmama thinks broom flying is _common_ , she has a magic carpet instead. It’s Persian.” The brightness of his cheeks didn’t lessen a bit, and he seemed chagrined. For all his ancient familial connections, Robin didn’t have any more money than John did. “I’ve never asked, actually.” Robin’s grandmother had outfitted him in a grand but frugal way. She was quite acetic, but much like Mummy, she had strong opinions about how the family was perceived. She got Robin anything he needed…if she thought he needed it. Brooms clearly had not been on her mental list.

Now everyone stared at Robin for a moment but Sherlock just blinked. “John, Molly, Robin and I all require a chaperon for broom purchases at your earliest convenience.”

Basarab sighed and sat back. “You aren’t going to ask them if they feel alright if you just go ahead and get these things for them.”

“No,” answered Sherlock immediately in a definite tone. When Basarab raised an eyebrow, Sherlock huffed, “They will all just _protest_ and _try_ to refuse. If I want to continue working and studying with my friends, then they _cannot_ have sub-standard equipment! My mother _will_ find out, and she will forbid me from associating with them. She’s incredibly…difficult. The simplest resolution is to outfit each of us with an appropriate broom, and since I am the one with what John refers to as an _obscene_ _amount of filthy lucre_ , then it is logical for me to prevent such situation from occurring by pre-empting the issue. Purchasing brooms for my friends is the quickest _most sensible_ solution, therefore though I am loath to repeat myself, _John, Molly, Robin, and I require a chaperon in order for us to go buy brooms_. Diagon Alley is sufficient, though there is a new broom shop in Hogsmeade Village. At your pleasure, sir.”

Basarab looked calmly down into the face of the impatient boy who was trying to stare commandingly at him. “I’ll see if deStone is available.”

 _Not deStone!_ Sherlock almost shouted with anger. deStone was so…friendly…and chatty…and _sincere_. He really _was_ interested in Sherlock expanding on an ash index that he’d found in one of the crumblier grimoires. deStone actually would be _completely happy_ to listen to Sherlock rattle on about the metric system, and how even though electricity was invisible it wasn’t magic, and that was all very fine. The Professor was supportive, and lavish with positive commentary, but deStone liked things that Sherlock didn’t. He liked to maintain _eye-contact_ , and when he _paid attention_ it was a bit disconcerting. Professor deStone was very large, nearly as broad as he was tall, so maintaining eye-contact often meant he had to bend down to do so. It made walking awkward.

There was also the near-certain probability that deStone would stay with them every step of the journey. Stamford had been easy to shake off, one hint of a chance to hang around the pastry shop where a girl he had his eye on worked had been all that was required. Sherlock had divested himself of John’s chaperone within minutes. He doubted it would be so easy to do with the student counsellor.

There was also _the hugging._  deStone loved to hug, and Sherlock had been crushed to the large man at least twice before he managed to explain that he preferred a _no physical contact_ association. The large man apologised profusely and kept himself a strict distance from Sherlock but everyone else loved a good squeeze. John allowed deStone to enthusiastically give him a companionable hug, and there was practically a constant queue of children who missed their parents and needed the odd moment of caring attention. Professor deStone was everyone’s big brother, the most helpful, nurturing, well-intentioned, and enormous cheerleader any child could wish for. Sherlock didn’t like it when John let it happen, if John needed hugs, Sherlock would give them to him. He made a point of hugging John with greater frequency after the first few times. “Isn’t there anyone else?”

“Well, we could see if Professor Longbottom has some time.” Basarab knew every single one of Sherlock’s sore points. The Professor didn’t seem to actively dislike anyone, but he was almost precise in his ability to divine what made you most uncomfortable and forced you to confront it. “Or perhaps Professor Wood, he knows quite a bit about brooms.”

 _They were worse than deStone!_ John practically worshipped _Neville_ , as he insisted on being called. Sherlock grudgingly admitted that the man was very decent, and he did know a rather astonishing amount about things that grew, but honestly, John really did go on about him. Wood was no better. John had become just as obsessed with that silly sky-ball game as the rest. Sherlock didn’t care for it a bit. John had already memorised Professor Wood’s old records and related trivia, and together with Robin, was currently working his way through all the top players on the various teams. It was tedious and boring but they seemed to love it. Sherlock couldn’t bear an entire shopping trip filled with sports conversation. “Professor deStone will do nicely,” he conceded with ill grace.

It took a few days but a shopping expedition was arranged, and when all was said and done, Sherlock and his friends were all the nervous owners of brand new top-of-the-line brooms from a new shop that Sherlock had sourced. It was in Hogsmeade Village, but despite the many distractions to be found there, the group went only to the single shop, _AirDot_. “Why _there_?” Robin asked. “There are loads of respectable broom shops that have been open for generations. This place has barely been around for a year.”

Sherlock sniffed, “The owners.” Apparently, this wasn’t enough of an answer. “The shop is co-owned by two gentleman friends, one _A. Shappey_ , and one _M. Crieff_ , both of them are renown for their abysmal flying records.”

“Why on earth are we getting our brooms _there_ then?” John was aghast. “We can shop anywhere, you said it yourself.”

“They have a silent partner, a senior partner, a man only known as _DR_. He’s a genius at flight, and does all their design work. He’s been working illegitimately for years now, and his brooms have mostly been used by the most discerning of villains and crooks. Now that he’s _gone straight_ , he produces bespoke brooms, and his partners conduct the business for him.” Sherlock had read a great deal on crimes, and knew an uncomfortably large amount of rather shady people, not personally, but definitely where to find them when you needed to. _DR_ would provide brooms that were capable of things other than mere transportation, his unconventional approach regarding how a broom could be useful making their uniqueness irresistible to someone like Sherlock. “Our brooms will be one-of-a-kind, and each will be like our wands, best suited for our particular personalities.”

He wasn’t wrong. Even deStone whistled appreciatively at the display in the shop. It was admittedly small, and a bit crowded, but the brooms were hung upright on the walls, crowded side by side to fill every single span. Both owners were in attendance, one a tall slightly portly man with an eager grin, the other, a short ginger fellow who seemed to have a constant case of nerves. He wore a large badge that said _Senior Service Assistant_ , and it was trimmed with four rows gold braid. Much like their wands, and their familiars, each child was required to stroll past the selection. Molly’s broom quivered when she came near it, and Robin’s jerked around on its chain until he got hold of it. John’s tried to fly right to him, but Sherlock’s ripped itself right off the wall and hurtled itself right into his hand. “We’ll take all of them.” One bag of gold later and the transaction was concluded. Sherlock waved away any attempts at thanks, only interested in reading the large manual that came with his.

When they returned to Hogwarts they were allowed to register their brooms for storage in the basement. They wouldn’t be permitted to use them without a training supervisor attending, but regardless, all four of them proudly had their names put down beside their broom’s model.

Robin Reliant – _Caliburn Mark 2_

Molly Hooper – _The Magnus_

John Watson – _Cumulus 900_

Sherlock Holmes – _The MI6_

The rest of the year began to go by with a lighter spirit until the extra-credit class that Sherlock had talked them into began to cause some problems. No one minded taking Divination class, except for the fact that getting there required a fair bit of physical effort, but thanks to Professor Wood’s health regime, everyone was able. The issue began with the fact that Sybil Trelawney was a terribly good teacher. She was awful, but in a way that made her lessons stick, if for nothing more than the logical refutations anyone with common sense automatically made. Professor Trelawney was quite mad now, her delicate mental state shattered in years past but still strangely able to give direction. She was essentially harmless, except for the irregular occasions where she threw tea at someone instead of swirling the leaves properly.

Robin, in particular, had a gift for translating her ramblings. “Well, _half-light_ obviously means _gibbous moon_ , and _wise-lets_ are clearly _baby owls_ , and how could anyone mistake her arm gestures for anything but harvesting? Sherlock, old boy, you’re normally good at this sort of thing.”

Sherlock looked at his good friend and answered in a dry tone, “You are suggesting that we harvest the makings of our tea in around a fortnight when the moon is in the correct phase, and drink it in the aviaries?”

He’d meant to be sarcastic. “Ten points to Ravenclaw,” intoned Trelawney, attempting to sound portentous. “I knew you had it in you, Holmes.”

“It was actually Reliant,” Sherlock wasn’t about to take credit for anyone else, not ever. He was going to earn his way to the top on his own. “I was just repeating what he said.”

“Ten points to Hufflepuff.” Trelawney tried to do the voice again but it came out a bit wobbly instead, wavering on the end notes so it sounded like she was deflating slowly. “And one point to Ravenclaw for owning up.”

 _That was acceptable_. Both boys thanked their professor who dismissed them to the greenhouses to make their plans with Neville. For some reason, they got black looks from several of the other students, and Sherlock was puzzled as they queued up to leave the room. When they were the last ones to use the ladder hatch on the floor he asked, “What’s going on?”

“You really are pants at understanding people.” Robin was genial, slapping Sherlock lightly on the back. “We got points and they didn’t, simple as that. It’s all a competition, isn’t it? All of us are working our hardest to be better than everyone else, and we four nearly always get rewarded.” Sherlock cast back through his memories which only verified Robin’s statement. “They’re just jealous, don’t let it bother you.” Robin fell to his knees, his head falling back. His eyes were unfocused, and he apparently didn’t notice that he was kneeling on a rather spiny vine. His head fell forward as he spoke, his voice empty of all inflexion. “ _Most noble saviour is the key, his sacrifice will access mystery. The ties that bind will surely be severed, except one thread no element can weather. One true hero will save the day, by giving his heart and his life away_.”

Robin retched as if he were about to be ill. Professor Trelawney knelt beside him, ignoring the fact that he’d accidentally crushed one of her ornamental plants. “Dear boy!” she sounded distressed. “Poor innocent child! You have _The Gift_.” There was no mistaking her inference. The normally jittery teacher seemed calm, and even pitying, gently laying a hand on Robin’s shoulder. “You have _The Gift of Prophecy_. I’m so sorry.” She didn’t seem to know what else to do so she fluttered around, waving her wand ineffectually before sticking it in her hair and turning away. “I can’t remember how to make those memory thingies, um, I’ll write it down!” She scrambled around for paper and John unthinkingly presented his notebook. “Thank you, Sir Watson.”

John paused but replied, “You’re welcome?” feeling unsure because she’d just called him _Sir_ , and she was a _legitimate_ prophet, well at least one time, and Sherlock _did_ often say John was going to be a knight… _none of that was relevant now._  “Will he be alright?”

“Oh, I expect he’ll just go on as always,” Trelawney was carefully putting down Robin’s prophecy, her letters shaped in decadent scrolls and swirls, her writing so elaborate that she needed to re-dip her quill for every word. It took an entire page for her to make her note. “After all, _I_ have yet to stop.” She sighed wearily. “Perhaps he will bear this burden better than ever I could.”

Robin was taken to the infirmary to be checked over. Professor Trelawney sent a message to the Headmistress, who came to see him, closing the other children into the hallway to wait.  Anxiously they huddled together, and when the Headmistress left, she paused and eyed all of them sharply. “I will see Sherlock Holmes and John Watson _before_ first class tomorrow morning to discuss your notebook, for now, go see your friend. He will be perfectly fine.” She gave John his book back and said nothing more before leaving. Rushing inside they found Robin sitting on the end of a bed with Professor Trelawney bidding him good-evening.

“I’m alright,” he sighed, and now all his stoic bravado seemed to disappear. “We’re not to mention it. Headmistress thinks it’s a real prophecy, which is good and bad. Good, that we know something first, but bad because we actually don’t know a thing. That’s how it works. We don’t even know _when_! Professor Trelawney’s prophecy took _years_ to come to fruition.”

Sherlock opened his notebook, in it was the prophecy as scribed by Professor Trelawney. “We all have copies of it now. You know the pages don’t come out, we’ll always have four copies of it. The notebooks are almost impossible to destroy.” Sherlock hadn’t been joking around when he’d designed his spell. The notebooks couldn’t be burned, made wet, soiled, torn, or damaged in any way. “Now we have to protect our notebooks from discovery.”

“No one wants to look at them right now,” John pointed out. “We’ve had them all year and no one has even asked after them.” That was true enough but Sherlock still looked concerned. “Alright, everyone, make a point of being extra discrete with them, don’t go loaning it to people.”

“Good advice from the person who loaned their book immediately to the first person who asked for a scrap of paper.” Sherlock’s retort was a bit sharp, but he softened immediately. “Always trying to help, that’s our John. Well, let’s get on with it. Unless Robin needs to remain we don’t need to hang about here. We’ve got an early day tomorrow.”

“I’m going to run to the kitchen and get some treats for Lucy,” Molly patted Robin on the hand. “You know she loves apples.”

“Want us to come with?” Robin was shrugging himself back into his school robe. “It’s not a problem.”

“Oh no, it only takes a minute and it’s nice to have a bit of girl time with Mrs Hudson.” All the boys recoiled a bit, and bid Molly a hurried farewell. Mrs Hudson was becoming famous for her _girl-talk_ where she dispensed earthy advice about womanhood to anyone who needed a few facts about the matter. “Still want to come with?”

“Er, no, it’s alright. I should probably turn in early too.” Molly laughed in the face of their discomfort and all three boys blushed. “See you at breakfast?”

“Alright, you can knock on my door when you’re ready, or I’ll come find you when I am.” Robin and Molly routinely met up before finding Sherlock and John, all four spending their free time as well as their study time together. When John and Sherlock were occupied, Robin and Molly often found things to do together. Everyone helped each other with chores like _familiar_ training or trading off menagerie feeding assignment.

Much like health class, there was no getting out of helping around the castle, everyone had to pitch in somehow. Giving the children something mobile to do was a necessary break in their scholastic routine, they weren’t allowed to be glued to their desks for their entire waking day. Now that it was late in the spring even Sherlock was finally showing the signs of being stronger and healthier than he’d been at the beginning of the school year. He ate three meals a day with John, instead of only one, alone, and was able to make it through each exercise period with growing ease, and knew that he’d grown four centimetres in height since autumn. John had grown only two.

Later that night, when John and Sherlock had found their beds, but before they drew their curtains tight, Sherlock asked, “Who do you suppose the prophecy is about?”

John was silent. “I don’t know, Sherlock, it could be anyone…” Sherlock’s notebook flapped suddenly and fell from his nightstand where it had been laying. Its pages ruffled without a hand on it and fell open.

_Help_

It was Molly’s handwriting, but the word was huge, scrawled across the page. Alarmingly, a large splash of red spattered across the page, “Molly!” Sherlock shouted, jumping right out of bed. “John, Molly is in trouble!”

In seconds they’d jumped into their shoes, grabbed their robes, and rushed off down the hallway. Isaac was hanging onto Sherlock’s leg and climbing up to his shoulder, while Monty flew ahead, guiding them all. They ran into Robin at the entrance to the kitchens. “Molly is in trouble!” he shouted, though they were right in front of him. Harold took wing and flittered through a doorway. “Come on lads, we have to find her!” Dashing off, Robin ran to find Molly, Sherlock and John hot on his heels.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FYI, darling_pet and I took an online quiz to see which House we'd end up in, should we ever be lucky enough to go to Hogwarts. 
> 
> darling_pet - Hufflepuff  
> distantstarlight - Ravenclaw
> 
> *AUTHORS' NOTE*  
> This fic is under construction and will be presented in its entirety as soon as the writing is complete. This will happen in 2017 - while it's still spring if one author can cut a break and find some time. Stay tuned!


	11. Doorways and Passages

The lot of them skidded into the kitchen just in time to watch Mrs Hudson pull a tray of cookies out of one of the dozens of ovens that were apparently producing the baked goods needed for the next day. There were dozens of House Elves working merrily at rows of long low tables, chopping and slicing, or grinding and mixing. It was organised chaos as the Elves worked with human, or at least, _human appearing_ individuals, to truss together roasts for slow cooking, or to discuss ingredients they were combining in order to make a variety of hot and cold sides, whilst others laboured to produce vast amounts of fancy confections. Everyone seemed happily engaged in their labours, including Mrs Hudson, who gave a coo followed by a happy smile, “Oh, late night taste testers! Just what I needed. You just missed Molly by no more than a quarter of an hour. She tried the tarts, but you can try the biscuits for me.” She was smiling happily at them, but it dropped away the second she took a proper look, “What is it?”

“Something’s happened to Molly, we got a message from her and…well, look.” John showed her the page from their notebook, carefully keeping the page with the prophecy on it obscured. Mrs Hudson gasped, “Did she say where she was going?”

Mrs Hudson shook her head, “I’m sorry boys. She had some _personal_ questions to ask, tried the tarts, and then simply said goodnight. She went back out the main kitchen exit, but that exit chamber has eight different passages connected to it. You can reach any part of the castle from here.” Sherlock was frustrated. _Of course you could. Mrs Hudson oversaw all the House Elves and therefore had to be able to get absolutely anywhere in a shot when required. Food production was only part of what she did. With other key members of staff, Mrs Hudson helped make sure that the entire castle, and everyone who lived in it, was taken care of whether it was laundry that needed doing or midnight snacks that needed finding_.

“It’s taken us only a few minutes to get here, so whatever happened to her, happened right outside. She couldn’t have gotten further than that before she had to call for help. She might have run first, to get the time to get out her notebook and dash off her message but the red…” Sherlock’s mind was racing. It looked like blood but didn’t necessarily have to be blood. It could have been red ink, or paint, or dye, or...he searched his mind desperately for alternatives, “Or even syrup, the kitchen is right there.”

“How can we trace her?” asked Robin in a demanding tone, “There must be a way. My gran can find me anywhere when I’m home.”

“Well, if you had something personal of hers, you could get Professor Basarab to put together a location potion for you. Carter, Gary!” Mrs Hudson called the elves and with a popping sound, both of them materialised beside her, gazing upward attentively. “Lads, young Molly Hooper is missing.”

Carter looked to his master who nodded back, “Go on Carter, go to Molly’s room and get her hair brush. Make sure it’s hers and not Sarah Sawyer’s. Molly has dark hair, remember, Sarah is ginger. Hurry please.” The magic of House-elves was always startling to witness. Things no wizard could do without extensive training were no more difficult for the elves than blinking their own eyes. It took Carter mere seconds to flash away, and only seconds more to be back, a hairbrush in his hand, the bristles caught with several strands of long brown hair.

Mrs Hudson sent Gary to fetch Professor Basarab to his classroom to meet the rest of the group who nearly ran from the kitchens the entire long way. The black-robed Professor looked strange. His pale face was paler than ever, and he looked slightly less human than normal, “What has happened to Miss Hooper?” Basarab clearly _commanded_ answers, staring directly at Sherlock, “Tell me, little detective, tell me everything.”

Sherlock flinched as his entire view seemed to be taken up with Basarab’s eyes, and that gaze seemed to want to look at his very soul. The Professor was glowering at him with such intensity that he felt momentarily overwhelmed before he rallied his normal elevated self-assurance, “Molly has disappeared. She went to see Mrs Hudson before retiring for the night and something went wrong on her way back to her rooms. She has written a note in the books that we all have; they’re magically linked together.” Sherlock paused to show him his booklet, and Molly’s dripping red writing. “We have some of Molly’s DNA, you understand DNA? We require a location spell immediately. It is necessary for us to find her. She is our friend, and friends help each other.”

Basarab seemed to be ignoring Sherlock, his long dark cloak swirling dramatically as he snatched the hairbrush away from Carter before anyone else even noticed that the House-elf had returned. Taking up a strand of Molly’s hair almost delicately, the professor murmured a few words over it, flicking his wand with an elaborate gesture, then touching the strand with the tip. It coiled itself into a tight circle, and in an instant, Professor Basarab had a ring of hair resting on his palm. He retrieved a small phial from one of his many pockets, and from it poured three drops of black liquid. The drops fell upon the strand and seemed to run along it until it was fully coated. Molly’s hair was jet black for only a moment, then softened back into her actual shade. “Mr Reliant. Give me your hand.”

Robin held out his hand and Basarab slid the hair-ring onto it. “What do I do?”

“I know you are great friends with Miss Molly. Use those feelings. I’ve enchanted this strand to want to return from whence it came. It will tug at your hand until it finds her. Follow it. We will follow you. The Headmistress has been alerted, many plans to find the Miss Molly are being activated. This is but one. _Go_. Now, Master Robin, now.”

Robin looked at his hand and nodded. Turning with assurance, he followed the urgings of the enchanted ring, leading their small group further and further into the bowels of the castle, “This is where Slytherin used to be,” remarked Basarab, “Many of my old friends were schooled here.” He spoke as if a great amount of time had passed but he looked no older than a man in his fourth decade. “I would have enjoyed being educated here, but there is always time to learn more.”

Everyone was too focused on racing down the hallways to pay his words much mind. Harold and Monty flew in the lead, and Isaac held tight to Sherlock’s shoulder. The stones grew cold and damp feeling, and the magical torches in the passages grew fewer and fewer until they ran in darkness more often than not. “ _Lumos_!” ordered Sherlock, and his wand gave forth a gentle light.

Panic and urgency drove them all forward as fast as they could go. Despite their height and longer legs, John kept up with his friends, darting around corners with greater ease than they, keeping close to Robin who ran with his arm slightly extended, following the ring’s prompts with alacrity. The hallways grew cold and damp, and even though they took no stairs, it felt as if they’d descended to the lowest levels that Hogwarts had to offer. There were no hanging portraits of anyone at all, the walls now barren and rocky, bereft of richly designed paper, or the warmth of wood, or even the comforting embrace of plaster. An air of antiquity seemed to be developing, the scent of the air became markedly different, as if it were from someplace far away, and the school halls morphed into a rough tunnel. Rocky gravel crunched beneath their feet as they followed the glow of the ring.

“Molly!” cried Robin suddenly. His voice seemed strangely loud, and yet at the same time, swallowed up by the oppressive and dark stone that closed them into a vast dark chamber. Instead of echoing his words, it seemed to still the travelling vibrations. All of them twisted about, trying to see everywhere while still moving forward. There were no corners, the walls rough as the tunnels. The furthest edge was almost impossible to see in the dimness, but there was enough faint light to see that there were exits to other tunnels all around them. Dozens of them lead away from the dank room. The space was illuminated by an enormous white stone bowl that gave off a cold pale light. It was set deep into the floor so that its contents could be seen no matter where you stood, and so they could see that Molly lay in the very centre. Over her stood Donovan, her face slack and staring off into the distance. She didn’t seem to be paying any attention to the girl at her feet, but the long slender blade in her hands wasn’t a comforting sight to anyone. Robin was now impossible to keep up with. The tall boy darted far into the lead, reaching the huge bowl first. Sally was lifting her arm, clearly readying herself to strike, and just as clearly, completely oblivious that there was a crowd of shouting people running directly toward her.

Sherlock had his wand out first, but to his mortification, his childhood lisp decided to make an appearance, “ _Exthpelliarmuth!”_ he shouted. Nothing happened.

“ _Expelliarmus_!” With a commanding flick of his wand, Robin managed to knock the blade out of Donovan’s hand, causing it to land on the gravel floor, clattering into stillness several meters away. Donovan fell backwards slowly, collapsing to the bottom of the large bowl, splayed out in almost the exact same pose Molly was currently in. The young Slytherin was laying on the edge of a massive drain that was covered with an elaborately carved lid. She looked as if she’d been thrown down, her robe tangled around her legs, her arms splayed awkwardly near her head, and her hair partially pulled from the neat queue she normally kept it in.

Without pause, all the boys jumped into the bowl and knelt around their friend while Basarab quickly examined Sally. “Molly, _Molly_ can you hear us?” shouted John.

“Molly!” With extreme gentleness, Robin gathered her up. Molly was limp and unresponsive but was breathing easily. She seemed deeply asleep, and entirely unaware of anything, “Molly?” Robin brushed the loose hair away from her face and held her up for Basarab to inspect.

“They’ve both been enchanted,” Professor Basarab seemed very angry. Sherlock already had his wand out but had no idea what to do, and no spell ready to do it, even if he knew what it was. Frustrated with his lack he watched as Basarab took his own primitive looking wand out. Carefully, the Professor allowed a ball of shimmering light to pass over Molly, bathing her from head to toe in its glow. When he allowed it to go out, Molly opened her eyes, and seemed to be entirely startled, “Miss Hooper, allow us to explain.”

Sherlock butted in, “Someone cast a spell on you, but you managed to use our notebooks to send a message beforehand. We used a locator spell to find you. Basarab undid whatever magic had been cast to make you lose consciousness. What do you remember?” He looked down at her impatiently, “They’re getting away Molly, what do you remember?”

“Robin, what is going on?” Molly clung to the tall boy anxiously as she followed with a whisper that wasn’t quiet enough, “No one can see up my robe, can they? Of all the days to wear a dress! I’m so embarrassed.” Her entire face was several shades darker, but in the witch-light, it was difficult to tell.

“Molly, shush! No, you’re fine, and what? How can you be embarrassed? Some uncouth villain _laid hands on you_ and clearly did not care for your personal comfort in their goals! Are you alright, do you feel…alright?” Robin noticed that he’d repeated himself, and all his gallant concern turned into a blush that now matched Molly’s as both of them noticed how close they were. Molly scrambled to her feet and Robin seemed to have lost all his previous grace as he awkwardly tried to assist. They stood there, pointedly not staring at one another and clearing their throats.

“Miss Hooper, if you are able to walk then I suggest we retrace our steps and return to more familiar territory. For whatever reason you were brought to this place, it cannot be for goodness sake. I will keep the spell upon Miss Donovan intact for the Headmistress to examine.” The Professor stood up, his robe billowing dramatically once more even with Sally in his arms, the tall points of his collar framing his face. Sherlock found the aesthetics of it very appealing and was reminded of Miss Luna and her brilliant disguises. It was a thought to pursue later, so he stored it away in a small closet in the hall of a construct he was currently building in his mind. When it was done, he would be able to recall any fact he chose to keep, whenever he needed it and could discard anything that wasn’t important with ease. _Later_ , because Basarab kept speaking, “We should return.”

John was looking around and came to a very quick realisation, “Which tunnel?” Everyone turned to look at him, and he pointed toward the outer rim of the circle of light, “Which tunnel did we come down? All of them look the same. I’m pretty sure we came running in from that direction since we’re all standing on this side of this basin, but that makes…” John counted quickly, “Four different exits that we can’t say for sure will lead us back to the kitchen level. So? Ideas?”

Sherlock stood next to John and took his hand as he examined the facts of the matter. The gravel took no footprints and didn’t even have indentations from where it had been trodden upon. It made no difference, “It’s not a problem, John, we have Harold, Monty, _and_ Isaac. They’ll help us.” He lifted his octopus up and looked into Isaac’s eyes, “What do you think Isaac? The three of you are shaping up to be the most dissolute rascals in the history of familiars, will a tunnel trap keep you from going back to our room?”

Isaac rolled his eyes, a blatant imitation of Sherlock’s most used retort. Three of his appendages extended upward beyond Sherlock’s head. Harold launched himself upward and caught them in his grip, both of them following Monty toward the dimness. The flightless portion of the group walked along the gravel, their wands aloft to cast light to see. The familiars were waiting for them at a single entrance, all of them looking bored. Isaac was sorting through the gravel, looking for interesting shapes, while Monty and Harold groomed each other’s feathers. Once they were safely in the correct tunnel, everyone looked back into the chamber. The light from the bowl had faded, and everything was dark. “I’ve never heard of this place.” remarked Sherlock, “I’ve read _Hogwarts: A History_ and no mention of this was in it.”

Basarab kept to the back of the group, wary of stragglers. They continued to follow the familiars. To keep pace with those who needed to walk, Harold and Monty were passing Isaac back and forth between them, and the octopus was enjoying his moments of temporary flight by contorting his malleable body into different shapes and patterns while he was in the air. It distracted everyone from the long journey. The easy grade downward to the lower level wasn’t as fun on the way back up, and every extra step seemed to weary them further.

A different search party came across them, this one lead by Professor Wood who anxiously limped forward at the sight of them, “Holmes. Watson. You found her then?”

“Professor Basarab was expeditious,” stated Sherlock. “Molly should probably go to the hospital wing. Salamistra too, I suppose.” They wasted no time going directly there while Professor Wood alerted the rest of the searchers that their lost student had been located. Their tight-knit group swept through the hallways at a quick pace. Sherlock and John were at the rear now, Professor Basarab now leading them as he continued to carry the unconscious Sally Donovan in his arms. The older man neither flagged or showed sign of weariness, he just kept moving with strange swiftness as if unbothered by the ordeal he was currently dealing with.

Headmistress McGonagall stood by the entrance of the examination room, allowing Basarab to pass, but not permitting anyone else but Molly inside. “You will _sit_ , and you _will_ wait.” All of them were seating in the padded hallway chairs in record time, staring at the now closed doors that kept them from seeing or hearing what was being done with the girls.

After an hour or so, Carter and Gary showed up. Carter had Lucy and Berryta, both animals clearly anxious to reunite with their temporarily misplaced mistress. Gary was managing an enormous tray covered with steaming hot mugs of chocolate, and a plate of sandwiches. The boys ate grimly, feeling tired but too worried about Molly to seek their beds, even if the Headmistress had told them to wait. Nothing could make them leave Molly behind, not without knowing a lot more. Regardless, it was very early in the morning now, and they had run a very long distance and climbed back up again. Worry or not, it was hard to keep their eyes open. Curling up next to each other as best they could, Sherlock held John close, laying his head on top of his soft blond hair, while Robin dozed, his head bent back at an uncomfortable angle as he snored at the ceiling. Feeling ill at ease, he pressed a kiss against John’s forehead and hugged his boyfriend closer still. He couldn’t keep his eyes open any longer, so reluctantly, he let them close.

∞

∞

∞

∞

Sherlock opened his eyes. They were gritty with sleep. Stiff from the uncomfortable position he’d been in, he rubbed at them until he could see clearly. Nothing exciting greeted him. He was in his room, and in his bed. With a sigh, he made himself sit up and wondered how he’d gotten there. His heart gave its normal post-waking pang as his nose attempted to get another whiff of whatever scent had comforted him while he slept. His body was so stiff though. _Was he sleep-walking now? The dreams were bad enough without adding more issues._ Vague memories of running across gravel were already fading. Scratching at his narrow chest, Sherlock made himself get up to shuffle toward his wardrobe. With care, he chose a shirt and suit combination that softened the angles of his face and made his impossible thinness seem less emaciated and more graceful.

Laying his choices out onto the bed, he went to wash up, scrubbing up vigorously under the hot spray of the shower. Shaving took only a few minutes, and after running his fingers through his still damp hair, he called it quits. There was no point in grooming further, his looks were sufficiently attractive to get him what he needed, should _physical_ appeal be the currency required, not that he ever went further than that. Hints and suggestions were as much as he could manage. The mere idea of someone handling his transport intimately made him want to be ill. He avoided the touch of others rigorously.

Toilet accomplished, he strode to the large area that normally served as a living room. One wall was plastered with clippings from newspapers and magazines, photographs, scanned copies, and all manner of paper information. Strings tied to pins ran from place to place in a pattern that made sense only to him and the second he had a piping hot cup of tea in his hand Sherlock stood before it, examining everything once more. He read the texts on his mobile before kneeling in front of the cold fireplace. Feeling around carefully, he pulled out a long black lacquer box. Opening it, Sherlock extracted an old-fashioned syringe and a phial of clear fluid. Shaking the ampule vigorously he held it up and peered at it in the natural light that came from his window. The liquid was still completely transparent, so he broke off the top, and proceeded to dose himself.

With a soft smile, he sat on his sofa and enjoyed the first hour of his high. It was beautiful. He’d crafted the drug himself right there in the kitchen, and despite the few after-effects that he couldn’t eradicate, it was very nearly perfect. He called it _Glass_ because it made puzzles easier to see through yet left him clear-minded but detached from his emotions. His mind raced at speeds that were normally unsustainable but in an orderly manner. Distantly he remembered that he’d yet again neglected to eat first, but that didn’t matter. Biscuits were always acceptable meal substitutes, besides, he wouldn’t care for hours more. A dose this size should last until the evening was fully upon him, and then he could inject the next dose. He’d try to remember a meal in between, but after all this time, Sherlock was well used to going days at a time without. _It was merely transport. It didn’t matter. Only puzzles mattered_. With that in mind, Sherlock got up and got on with his day.

Lestrade hadn’t twigged to _Glass_ yet so he was allowing Sherlock to assist on cases. The Detective Inspector didn’t care to work with consultants who were high on heroin or cocaine, so he’d made Sherlock swear to specifically stop, not even the legal derivatives that medicine provided. Following his promise to the letter, Sherlock had smoothly transitioned to his designer drug without batting an eye. As long as he kept up with his doses, the crash would never happen. Of course, it was cumulative, so when he _did_ crash, it would be awful, but that was a problem for another day. _Today_ was for catching serial killers who liked to kidnap young ladies and then exsanguinated them by slitting their femoral arteries. _Fascinating!_

Three had been found so far, all of them young and attractive, fit and wholesome. Apart from that, they had nothing at all in common, not even where they were found. There was nothing unusual about the locations, apart from being a place to dump a body, and Sherlock couldn’t be happier. Their only commonalities were the health and age of the victims, and the fact that all of them were found right after the spring equinox. With a chipper step, he left his flat on Montague Street, hailed a cab, and took himself to the morgue at Bart’s. He’d occupy himself with examining the bodies already available.

The pathologist was a mousy little thing, fresh out of school, and uncertain of her rapid advancement. Only an initial hint of flirtatiousness had been necessary to gain access to her sanctum. Sherlock had no interest in her, mostly because she was female and he was decidedly homosexual, but partially because he wasn’t capable of feeling anything emotional about people, not even men. He _could_ have a physical relationship with her and likely be good at it but he never bothered, not even once, not even with the gender that _did_ actually physically arouse him. Sherlock saw no purpose in initiating or receiving sex.

Doctor Hooper was pleasant enough, but Sherlock wasn’t interested, pleasant or not, and she knew that very well by now. All he wanted was the facts pertaining to the case at hand, and access to any spare human bits she might have lying about, all for the laudable purpose of increasing his already generous understanding of human anatomy, toxins, and violent deaths. Doctor Hooper didn’t know many people who were interested in talking shop with her the way he was, so even though it was only partially mutually satisfying, their association was not a negative one. She was an advocate of solving crimes, and very often went above and beyond when assisting Sherlock’s research, even though she didn’t have to.

He was in the morgue for hours before _The Incident_ happened. Sherlock had innocently been leaning over the naked body of the latest victim, examining the obvious puncture marks on her throat. Media had already labelled the serial killer _“Vampire: The Buffy Slayer”_ which Sherlock found to be in poor taste but then, society seemed to be rife with casual cruelty. He was gathering samples when his swab suddenly fell from his left hand. In fact, the entire left side of his body seemed to be burning with unexplained agony. Shouting, he fell to the floor, his right leg giving out unexpectedly as the pain in his shoulder brought tears to his eyes. Sherlock blacked out and woke in hospital. There was expensive aftershave in the air, and the second his nostrils fluttered, a disapproving voice chastised him, “ _Drugs_ , Sherlock? Mummy would be so disappointed.”

“Shut up, Mycroft. What happened? Why am I here?” Sherlock felt odd. His shoulder was still aching dully, and he could not think of a single reason why it should do so. His right leg was numb as well, and he couldn’t explain that either.

Mycroft looked disgruntled as well as annoyed, “You’ve been experimenting on yourself again. It’s likely that the consequences of all your illegal indulgences are finally catching you up! You are going through detox Sherlock, there’s no getting out of it, and the less you fight it, the faster it will be over. If you cannot maintain a life without constantly resorting to narcotics, the _Family_ will have no choice but to have you sectioned and confined for your own safety.” Sherlock was ready to shout his defiance when Mycroft coolly continued, “I’ve hidden nearly everything from them, Sherlock, to protect you. I can’t protect you any longer. Clean yourself up, it’s your last chance.” Sherlock found that he'd swallowed hard. Mycroft needed no further threat to strengthen his personal resolve. As much as he loved the chemical cocktails he mixed for himself, he loved his freedom more. Refusing to be caged, Sherlock closed his eyes and prepared himself to move forward without them.

∞

∞

∞

∞

“I’m so sorry Captain Watson, but you’re having a strange reaction to all the opiates we have on hand. There’s not much choice for pain management.” John nodded tersely and allowed the injection to proceed. Being used as a guinea pig for pharmaceuticals wouldn’t be his first choice, but the pain was so awful, he’d agree to anything to have it stop, even for a while, and that was just one of his problems. He was having problems recalling anything of his life beyond the years he’d been enlisted, so he was being honourably discharged, and given a pension to live on. He apparently had one living relation left, so someone somewhere was looking into contacting them on John’s behalf to see if there was a place he could stay while he recovered. Work would be impossible, not for a long time, and right now he hurt so very much. After weeks of healing, all his inner reserves were entirely drained, he couldn’t deal with the sharpness of the constant ache. He needed the break that pain relievers provided. “At least C.A.M. has provided all the medicines for free and you’re going to have extended medical coverage for as long as you need it. That’s good, right?”

John continued to say nothing to the medic chattering to him as he was ministered to. What could he say? _No thanks, I don’t want any free pain meds because I’m suddenly allergic to commonly available ones?_ Or worse, now that he was no longer a surgeon, no longer a soldier, how could he pay for the expensive therapies he’d need in order to recover? He couldn’t. Signing off as a test subject had been his only choice. _He already had awful dreams anyway, always about dark hallways where the pictures on the walls shouted at him, and sometimes in his dreams, he flew._ John didn’t know what was worse, the disconcerting feeling of familiarity when he dreamed, or the soul-gutting loneliness that never failed to engulf him whenever he woke up. “There we go Captain, you’ll be out like a light for the entire trip home When you wake up, you’ll be in London. You don’t even need to worry about staying with family, a small flat has already been arranged for you, why, in a few days, you’ll be walking the streets, won’t that be nice?”

 _London_. John could barely imagine it, though he’d apparently loved the city. John was still suffering from a nasty knock to the head that resulted in the loss of oddly specific memories, so he had no idea how to think of the city he’d once thrived in. He could recall every minute of being in the army, clear as if it had happened only yesterday, but before that was an odd blur. He had impressions of soft damp air, and a lingering moistness you noticed with each breath. _Here, it was so dry, so hot. What was it going to be like to breathe the fog, to hear the noise of the ancient city?_ “Yes,” was all he could manage. The medic expected nothing more and finished re-dressing John’s wounds in silence.

When he was done, he made notes on John’s clipboard and smiled down at him. John ignored the man as politely as he could and closed his eyes. He felt empty inside, but then, he’d felt that way for years now, hollow, lonely. He took risk after risk, trying to hang onto anything that made him feel alive. All of it was fleeting but he did his duty to his country, and to his mates in the army. Now, he couldn’t even do that, and the bitterness of it all was almost enough to consume him. He was right at the top of the list for suicide watch, so the medics kept him as sedated as possible. They had a therapist waiting for him in London, and his pension required his attendance to his sessions. Swallowing hard, John let consciousness fade away, embracing the darkness of sleep willingly.

He was indeed in London when he woke, and it was one of the most miserable experiences of his life. The damp made his barely healed wounds ached day and night, but he had to be miserly with his meds. C.A.M. only provided a set amount. John was part of the test group, and they weren’t going to give him more. Instead he’d been provided with a therapist to complain to, and further ordered to go for as many walks as he could manage. His immune system was getting stronger every day, but John still suffered from the unusually slow rate of healing that his body seemed to be stuck at. No one could explain it, and to cap it off, his right leg kept acting funny. It hadn’t been damaged at all but now he had to use a cane! How ironic was it that a man with only one functional arm had to use it to help make up for the fact that his perfectly good leg was acting like a lazy piece of shit.

John tried not to complain. _So many soldiers had died. The ones that made it home often had far worse to deal with than he did._ With a stiff upper lip, John just bore it quietly, not even telling his therapist about his latent plan to just end it all. That morning John sat on his bed for a long time, just thinking. When his mind was made up, he took his cane and limped out of his bland bedsit. He was going for one of his mandated walks, “My last one,” he promised himself, the same promise he made every morning. “One last walk to say goodbye and then, that’s it.” Relieved that he’d made some kind of decision yet again, John Watson took a sentimental stroll through London, saying goodbye to all the places he’d once enjoyed. He was done with it all.

Later that night he chided himself for changing his mind yet again and went to bed after his regimented schedule was completed for the day. Resting was horrid. He had already learned to expect nightmares. John was braced for them. Only a few of the scenarios were actually frightening, but each time he woke, the despair that inevitably filled him had made John hyper-sensitive to everything. The dreams were impossible to escape but his body needed sleep to heal, so night after night John made himself take his meds. The stupor he fell into was awful, but there was no other choice. The dreams felt familiar but he had no recollection of the situations they occurred in.

_We’re only First-year students, no one is going to listen to us!_

_Irrelevant! We have to at least tell the Headmistress what we’ve learned._

_We haven’t learned anything! Term is nearly over and…and…I don’t want to go yet._

_I don’t either…perhaps you can stay with me? Your mum would say yes, I’m sure of it._

John had had this dream before and for some reason, the spike of happiness he experienced during them made waking up even worse. When his eyes opened he felt the now predictable wave of grief wash over him. _Something was terribly wrong, something important was missing, but what?_ John never had answers so he just rolled out of bed, wrapped on his robe, and made himself tea. He’d survived one more day despite his resolution not to, and he didn’t know how to feel about that anymore. He’d wandered until dinner time, and then come back to the bedsit the way he did every single day. He cleaned his weapon carefully and put it away. John spent the evening sanitising every centimetre of his minuscule residence, intently focused on each task until it was completed to perfection. There was nothing else to do, so John sat on his bed until bedtime, just staring at the wall.

He was awake only a few hours later. It was still dark this early in the morning but there was no point even trying to sleep any longer. The dreams were worse than ever. He wasn’t sure what was worse, remembering the dreams, or trying to remember that they were dreams.

 _He was always young, healthy, full of energy and determination. He recalled mundane things, sitting in classrooms, eating meals, doing his homework, but vibrantly so in a way he knew simply did not happen in the real world. He’d never owned a floating candle. He didn’t have a pet parrot, nor did octopus sit on people’s shoulders. People didn’t actually fly around on broomsticks. Nowhere in the world was there a game that required such an ability in order to be played. Paintings didn’t move and talk_. John’s therapist explained that his unconscious mind was trying to tell him something via his dreams, and he’d written her explanation off as a load of nonsense. _She had actual crystal balls on her bookcase, and he was pretty sure her tea set wasn’t just for refreshments_. John decided that he wasn’t going to see her anymore, and had already gotten confirmation that a therapist named Ella Thompson would be taking over his mental care.

John drank one cup of tea before he ate a small and plain breakfast of an apple paired with a wedge of cheese. The kitchen was wiped down carefully before John proceeded to go through his mandated work out, carefully exercising his damaged arm. Physical therapy was helping but he had to maintain a rigorous daily regime, so after careful stretches and gentle lifts, John slipped on his brogues and went for a long walk. His other therapist had made him agree to a short list of necessary daily activities to help John prevent himself from slipping further into depression, his particular brand of unbalance most positively affected by the rigorous order. Even if he didn’t want to, it gave him a degree of comfort to know that he’d checked off something on his mental list, and even those tiny accomplishments gave him energy enough to proceed to the next task and then the next.

One major problem was that John had little else to do. He was having difficulty with the long quiet periods. He was long accustomed to using such times in order to prepare for incoming madness, building up his inner reserves in order to be strong later, but now there was no need. Regardless, John stuck another apple in his pocket for lunch and went to wander around London, trying to forget his life as well as his dreams and to somehow lose himself in the organised chaos of the city. He took a different route every day, and when he’d wandered enough, he would find the nearest bus stop and begin his journey back to his bedsit. He had his main meal of the day then, his meagre appetite whetted by his exertions, normally a simple pasta, or at least a reheated can of hearty stew. Today he limped through the parks, practising navigating around people whilst using his cane. His right leg just would not work right. When John grew tired and frustrated he’d flop down onto a bench and sulk there. When his mood lifted he would entertain himself by pointing his cane at different things, the end of it waving around in graceful patterns. John normally idled his hours away alone, so he had no idea that today was the day all of that changed, “John! John Watson!”

The rotund and happy man who rushed over to shake his hand wasn’t familiar, at least not at first, but after he introduced himself, John had a rush of memory. He remembered classrooms and the same smiling face. _He must have gone to school with the man_. His name popped up and John managed to stutter out the words, “Sorry Mike, it’s good to see you mate. I’m sorry I didn’t recall right off but when I was injured I suffered a kind of amnesia. I don’t recall most of my life before the army, only bits and pieces here and there. I didn’t even know I had a sister until I was discharged into her care. I still haven’t met her, but she sent me some things to settle in with.” He waved a mobile at the other man.

“That’s awful John, and bizarre, you have _no idea_ how many times I’ve heard people tell me they can’t recall their early years. If I thought amnesia was contagious, I’d be worried, but then I remember I’m a doctor, and I’m probably just running into an unusually high number of people with the same ailment. After all, Bart’s has a top notch neurology department, I’m sure the kids there are doing all sorts of studies about memory. I can check into it for you if you like?”

John was recalling Mike a bit now. He had impressions of friendship and helpfulness. The man was sincerely interested in John’s life since they’d parted, and when their conversation wound its way around the topic of housing, the heavy-set man nearly leapt for joy before taking John to the morgue at Bart’s straight-away. They chatted Mike’s lunch-hour away, concluding in John’s complaint about needing to leave the city soon. _He didn’t want to leave London. It was already difficult staying occupied right here in the centre of the hustle and bustle. If he had to move someplace quiet, he would just fade away. Better to go out on his own terms_. “Who’d want me as a flatmate?”

Those few words led to John being cajoled into following Stamford back to his workplace. There they descended into the lowest levels in order. John was reminded of one of his many vivid dreams, something about dark tunnels and vast rooms. The sense memory fled the second that Mike pushed the doors to the morgue open. Inside sat a man, someone thin and pale, with dark hair that curled loosely, and eyes that were both silvery as well as deeply coloured. John was struck silent for a moment before the stranger asked in a deep clear voice, “Afghanistan or Iraq?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> JKR owns every bit of her fantastic creation. Her creativity and cleverness is to be adored.


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